


Bring Me Chocolate Biscuits, Please

by Lunar_Iris



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Gender or Sex Swap, M/M, Magic, Menstruation, Mood Swings, PMS symptoms, Vomiting, period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2018-12-13 22:52:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11770083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunar_Iris/pseuds/Lunar_Iris
Summary: Through a cruel twist of fate, England is turned into a woman and must suffer through a monthly cycle: PMS, menses and all that goes along with it. How much help can America be? And, whose fault is this anyway?





	1. Turn and Face the Strain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another de-anon from the kink meme, originally posted on FFN.
> 
> As before, I'm including the original request so you know what you're getting into before you start reading, because of the subject matter
> 
> Request: "Via some cruel twist of fate England has been turned into a woman. What I want to see is fem!England having really bad PMS to the point she(he?) feels physically nauseated and sick. America, never having to really deal with these issues before freaks out trying to make it better.
> 
> Bonus: Moodswings(clingy, upset, pissed off)  
>  Bonusx2: England throws up on America (feel free to ignore this entirely if its not your thing)"

**Turn and Face the Strain**

“Ouch!” England’s hip collides into a bookcase, tripping over the cuffs of his pyjamas in his rush to cease the incessant ringing of his mobile phone – the sixth call in half an hour, from America most likely. He had tried to ignore it at three o’clock in the morning, as he had tried to ignore the knocking that joined it five minutes ago. Just as he thinks he sees the illusive mobile on far end of the room, near the bay window, the ringing ceases, leaving the room in darkness. He tries to locate it by the faint luminescence of the message indication light and stumbles as he rights himself, feeling his center of gravity wobble—he should be fast asleep and the air feels thick. He bunches up the waistband of his pyjamas in his hand—why is that necessary?—and plops down in the window seat, instead of sinking down into it as usual.

_Bang, bang, bang!_

His mobile starts ringing again, and he swipes to answer it. “What is it, prat?” He huffs, voice husky from sleep, yet oddly squeaky. Maybe a cold? He clears it with a thick swallow.

“What’s the matter with you, Artie? You sick? Your voice sounds--”

“What!? It’s-” England checks the time on his mobile, “it’s three thirty in the morning on the bleeding weekend! Why’re you even calling me?”

“Let me in?”

“Give me one, good reason I should? I should still be asleep in m’bed, you boor.”

“Please, y--”

“You tack on ‘please,’ but I still see no reason I shouldn’t leave y’out in the cold.” He tucks his legs underneath him, because it feel strangely uncomfortable the way they dangle off the side with only his toes touching the floor. England sniffles, the pain in his hip still smarts, and he rubs at it.

“Really…do you have a cold, Artie? Did you forg--”

“Don’ call me that! Why’re you here?”

“How can you ask me that?!”

England starts at the genuine chagrin in America’s voice. “You! You’re! What?! Ugh! You aren‘t being very convincing. You aren‘t even making sense.” He won’t be getting much more sleep tonight.

“Wait, Arthur! Wait!” He is pouting now, too, no doubt. “I did ask you to pick me up. I know I did. We had a conversation about it day before yesterday and everything!”

That couldn’t be right. “But that’s tomorrow!” England knows he can be absentminded, but rarely so badly.

“Today is tomorrow! I mean tomorrow is today. Just check the date on your phone!”

“Fine!” He is in no mood to check the date; however, he’ll just let the idiot in and be done with it. “Fan-bloody-tastic. I’ll be right down.” He ends the inane conversation, and tosses the phone onto the window seat. Not even bothering to turn on any lights in his bedroom or the hallway, he stomps off to let America inside. He sighs and steps down the first step, only to miss, and grapples at the banister with a yelp.

“England!” America calls from the outside and bangs on the door with renewed urgency.

He rights himself, and goes down another step, slowly reaching the midpoint landing, and turns. England hastens his descent, driven insane by the frantic knocking, and misses the next step. How strange to have forgotten the height of steps he has climbed up and down for decades. England adjusts his steps, bending his knees, stretching his legs down as he knows he always does and misses the next step as well, tumbling down the remaining five with a wail. His head and shoulder collide with the last banister rail, the large ornate one, as America storms through the front door.

“England!?“

At least he didn’t shoulder the door open; he must have found the spare key in the time it took to estimate the steps. England laughs without understanding, and his vision peppers with light. The sensation of his laughter hurts and dark spots grow to fill his vision.

 

~*~

 

The next thing England knows, he is on his back on the sofa and America is staring down at him.

“What 's going on?” America eyes, uncharacteristically wide, bore into him, sharp with suspicion and distrust, as though this is a new Cold War and he is Russia. The thought is distressing.

“You woke me from a rather peaceful sleep.” He dully indulges America this game.

Eyes narrow, mouth taught, this is not their usual stare down—playful, rarely serious, even when accompanied with shouting. America now is silent. A silent America is scary.

“Don’t look at me like that. All I know is that my head hurts and I should still be in bed.” England glances over at his grandfather clock in the far corner of the room just as it chimes four o’clock; the force of the sound, usually soothing, draws him in on himself, knees to chest. Curling his arms over his head, he hides his face into the fabric of the sofa. “Nng!” The chimes echo through his skull.

America twitches, in instinct to reach over and comfort him perhaps, but the movement stops short. America doesn’t touch him.

“Huh?” England glances at the hand fixed in the air, hovering over his shoulder, and watches it recoil in slow-motion and form a fist.

The cold stare remains. “Who are you?”

“What are you sa--”

“Why are you here?”

“Why? What? I-I…” He swallows words that will not come.

His hands twitch. America grabs his shoulders and shakes.

“England,” he whispers, grasping what he can of America’s words and speaking almost mindlessly. He just takes the first of the questions and they will work from there.

“Where is England?” Each word is punctuated with a firm shake.

“Ow! Stop it! Do you have a screw loose? Let go, you git! I’m right here!” he growls and wriggles out of the grip, though it hurts his head to move.

“Are you one of England’s mystical invisible voodoo creatures that finally decided to let me see you? Why play tricks on me? What happened to England?! What did you do to him?”

“Voodoo creatures!?” England’s eyes narrow, and the last remnants of concussion clear from his mind. “Now see here! They are faeries, Alfred! Faeries, you blithering idiot! I have introduced you to Mint! And lower your voice immediately or see yourself back out into the cold.”

Suddenly, America looks cornered, stuck between his previous disbelief and acceptance of fact, and England jumps on it.

“I most certainly am England. I don’t know why you can’t see what’s plainly in front of your face, and I don’t know why you’re insulting me in the wee hours of Saturday morning.” England crosses his arms, and fiddles with them to get them flush against his chest. “If you don’t stop staring at me like that, I’ll leave you here to collect flies in your mouth.”

“E-England?” America voice sounds small, like when he was a colony.

If he wasn‘t so mad he would hug the man gawking at him until something snapped. “Yes, England.” What kind of farce is this? A bad dream? He’ll wake up eventually. Maybe he should try pinching himself.

The younger nation collapses onto an empty cushion on the sofa. “Arthur?”

“Yes, Arthur.” He speaks slowly, purposefully. “Really, this is ridiculous, Alfred. Please, stop.”

“Wait. Sat-Saturday?” America’s voice still sounds small and uncertain, but sense seems to catch up with him, at last. “Arthur…It’s not Saturday.”

“Well, of course it’s Saturday.”

“No.” America sounds as sure of himself as he has been since their phone call. “Here.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “It’s Sunday.”

England sighs and looks at the date displayed in the background. “Sunday? It's Sunday?”

“Arth-Art…England. Wh-what happened to you?” America looks away, and England finally realizes that America has averted his gaze through most of their conversation thus far—except whilst he was shaking him.

He wants to insist that he look at him now, but can’t bring himself to demand that.

“I-I’m fine, Alfred. I mean, other than falling down the stairs. I’ll be just fine.”

“But, how…what? You look like. You look…?” The words break down into muttering and England can’t understand him anymore; the words sound like static.

“Alfred, you’re not making sense.”

“'Cause this doesn’t make sense!” America gestures at England, waving his arms.

“Now come with me upstairs and we’ll both go to bed. I know how you get when you’re jet-lagged—”

America straightens, the former annoyance returning to his eyes. “Jet lag doesn’t cause hallucinations, England!”

“Hallucinations? What are you talking about?”

America looks at him now, and he notices how his head must tilt. England looks up at him, farther than usual. They are almost the same height. Slowly, he rises, teetering slightly as he straightens; his balance is still all wrong. America quickly steadies him, hand at his waist, but pulls it away as though he has been burned, and his cheeks pink.

“What is the matter with you, Alfred? Now come on.” He reaches down and pulls on his arms, watching small hands unable to wrap around thick biceps that are larger than they used to feel. Small hands, unrecognizable hands, though they still carry all his scars. He squeezes; those hands are his. He steps away, and lands on the couch with an _oof_.

He over at America. For a moment, the clock stops ticking and America forms soundless words. The sounds catch up with him as England stumbles to his feet and trips up the stairs, because walking, running, moving is so strange, like something is missing and something is there that shouldn’t be, and everything is all wrong.

“England why do you look like a girl?” America’s question echoes in his ears as he stares into the bathroom mirror. America is right. England grapples at the door with a scream, the sound is piercing to his ears, and slams the offending image behind him to be forgotten. The door at his back cracks only slightly as he falls against it and slides to the bedroom floor.

It cannot be so easily forgotten. His center of balance. His voice. His hands.

He has been changed into a woman.

 

~*~

 

“E-England?” America still sounds miffed, definitely confused and concerned. He taps on the bedroom door, with his strength it rattles the knob, causing England to flinch and hug himself. “Can…can I come in?”

England stares at the door. He is surprised that tactless questions about his mental well-being didn’t find its way off America’s tongue.

“Please?”

He pulls his legs close and hugs them, swallows hard, but still cannot reply. England leans back against the bathroom door and stares blindly at a spot on the rug in the general direction of the rattling bedroom door. Everything is too hazy and strange, including the way the room blurs and how his thighs bulge against her shins. How there is something absent between his legs that he's not ready to give too much consideration. How hair falls down across his shoulders and into his face. In the wake of such peculiarities that he-she-he can’t yet process, England presses his face against the knees of his pyjamas, unable to will himself to speak.

He screams as the bedroom door slams inward, the fittings of handle and lock mangled. “Alfred! What the hell?”

“I thought you had passed out or died or something!”

He stares up at him. “But you--! My door!”

“You didn’t answer. I was worried.” He stops at the doorway, contemplating whether or not he should kneel down to England’s level, and he isn’t sure that he likes the apprehensive frown on the other nation's face. America looks as lost as England feels, and half wishes that he would bend down and just pick him up and put him back in the bed.

“It was only a few seconds!”

“It was five minutes!”

“You couldn’t wait five minutes?”

“I did. I even gave you plenty of warnings that I was gonna break the door down and you never said anything.”

“But I. You!” England growls.

“I did. That’s why I was so worried. You’d’ve been all fussy and yelling if you heard I was thinking of breaking down one of your doors. England,” he grunts out a sigh. “Damn it, why didn’t you say anything?!”

England tries hard not to pout. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about pursing his lips together, but wasn’t sure how that would appear in this new form.

“Come on. At least get up off the floor?”

He promptly stares at his knees; at least those look normal covered up by pyjama bottoms, except for the spots damp from tears.

 

~*~

 

America stands at the foot of the bed, leaning bodily on one of its posts, keeping his distance.

“Alfred, go to bed before you fall asleep on your feet. I’ll be fine.” England sinks underneath the covers and leans against the pillows.

“But who did this to you? Or...was it something you did?” His reluctance in asking that question is evident.

“No,” he growls, averting his gaze. “This was nothing I’ve done. I can assure you.”

“Then, Ar…then what happened?” America cannot say his name? Or just will not?

“We will discuss this further in the morning. I have a terrible headache. And, you will as well if you don’t waltz yourself right out of here, and make yourself at home in your bed that I just put fresh linens on yesterday afternoon.” Still America remains at the bedside. “Go on! If you don’t, so help me, Alfred, I will wallop you within an inch of your life, superpower or otherwise.”

“Yeah…” He gives a pensive stare toward the other side of the bedroom for a long moment. Suddenly, he pushes himself off the bedpost. “See you in the morning, England.”

“Goodnight, Alfred.”

“I’ll fix the door tomorrow.” He pads across the room and props the door closed with hardly a sound and then his footsteps disappear down the hallway, except for the occasional squeak of the old wood flooring.

The room turns quiet. England is sleepy, which is a surprise considering everything that has happened in the past two hours. His headache remains and serves only to muddle his thoughts, and make him feel lonely. As he settles down in bed, he wonders why he sent America away. He wishes he hadn’t dismissed Alfred, while the other nation looked so pathetic, but he had no comfort to give and wished to receive none. Best not feed the boy's hero complex; although the way his eyes light up when he can be of use makes America's face look attractive. Where that thought came from leaves England puzzled as sleep—and exhaustion—catches up with him. Maybe it is still some of the effects of concussion. He rolls against his pillowy chest, squirms at the sensation and grumbles a last time before sleep takes its hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the song "Changes" by David Bowie. I listened to it quite a bit while writing and editing the chapter, because it's a catchy song and some of the lyrics stuck out to me.
> 
> Prussium requested that I work on this one next. I'm rather fond of it, so I figured...why not! I'm editing it. Again. But, I think the hard stuff is done.


	2. If I Seem Edgy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey! I kept my promise for updating the next chapter! I'm so proud of myself! :)
> 
> I have the name of Katherine for Northern Ireland, a name given to her by England. I don't remember why I chose that name. And, Ireland is female for the sake of this fic. Plot. Overall, I've progressively been minimizing the usage of human names in this fic, probably because of a habit America has developed, and a habit that England has developed. And, it's just taken over. I've been obsessed through my whole editing process with name usage! I'm tiring myself out. I use nation names vs human names and proper name vs pronoun very purposefully throughout, so if the pronoun use is confusing at any point, please let me know. Narration goes back and forth from he to she with England, because, well circumstances.

A fitful sleep leaves England sluggish. Nothing makes sense. He wakes to bright sunlight filtering though the curtains. He postpones his morning shower—for some reason, it didn’t seem like a good idea—and heads downstairs for a late morning cup of tea instead. Walking doesn’t feel right, but he can’t pinpoint the reason with his sleep addled mind. To think, he needs tea. He puts the kettle on, and waits at the kitchen table for the water to boil, eyes still heavy.

At least it is the weekend, the only time he sleeps this late is after a pub crawl, and he can’t remember having anything alcoholic since Friday night. According to Alfred, it is Sunday. That’s right! Alfred arrived last night. The prat can’t even tell the time, and wakes people from their peaceful slumber.

“Hey!” Alfred grumbles from the hallway and shuffles across the kitchen to the stove. “Ar-England, aren’t you gonna get your water? Geez...” He mutters something about burning water and beheadings. Surely, it hadn’t been whistling for all that long. “…had no idea what the ruckus was.”

England groans and slumps against the table. “Sorry.”

“Ar-England, are you gonna be alright?” Alfred plops a tea bag into the cup ensconced in his hands, pulling it out of his grasp, and pours in the hot water leaving England to gauge the steeping time. They remain silent through the process, as well as the time it takes America to brew his coffee. “You wanna talk?” America sits down with his mug.

“What’s there to talk about?”

His gawk sounds choked and painful. “You? And…and what happened. And why you‘re…like you are…because of…what ever happened.” The boy cannot form proper words for the life if him, it seems, and can only gesture toward England as he struggles for his words.

“Alfred, what do you mean ‘what happened?’ I don‘t understand.”

“You don’t remember?”

“What’s there to remember? Your little late night invasion?”

He hums. “Yeah, okay, I’m real sorry about that. But, that’s, um, not what I meant. And you were supposed to pick me up.”

“I’m sorry if I’m not in the mood for riddles, Alfred, but I’m not feeling well.” England avoids the critical stare from the other nation.

“That’s understandable. You took a pretty nasty fall. And, might’ve gone back to bed with a concussion, which is bad. And, we should probably take a look at your head, and you‘re probably all bruised up. Um…” He sounds like an awkward teenager talking to a pretty girl—looks like one too with his glasses and bed hair.

But, at the same time, it’s sweet. He shakes that thought from his mind, because he still receives that peculiar gaze. England looks away with a huff, and carefully removes the tea bag. “I’m just tired.”

“Yeah, sure.” America is unconvinced. “Wh-why… Shit.” He works his jaw and as he draws in a deep breath, and his expression hardens, a show of his typical stubbornness. “I can’t believe I have ask you again. England, why’re you a woman?”

He recoils against the chair back, and it squeaks on the flooring. “A what?”

America’s cheeks pinked. “Yeah, you know… all feminine.”

“You’ve said some horrible things to me before, Alfred, but this must be one of the most absurd! How could you say such a thing?! Do you now how hurtful that is?”

“Because it’s true!” America jolts to his feet, the chair screeching against the tiles. He dashes across the kitchen and back in a blink, holding a large soup ladle to England’s face. “Look at yourself.”  
He scowls at America, and then at the ladle. The features are all distorted and miniaturized, but a very attractive feminine face scowls back at him. It's true. Honey blonde hair trails down his neck, brushing past his shoulders. The full eyebrows are mostly unchanged as are the bright green eyes, but both seem more delicate—the word leaves a bad taste in his mind. There is a striking family resemblance. The line of his jaw, though smoother, is still the same general shape, as are his ears, usually barely obscured by his untamable hair and are quite hidden now.

England remembers to breathe, and pokes at his own rounded cheeks. “It can’t be.”

America says nothing, sits back in his chair, and lets England stew. How generous. The ladle soon clanks onto the table, and his hands make their own way between his legs, briefly, and toward his chest.

“Geez, England! Don’t do that!” America’s cheeks redden and he whips around so fast England things the nation might get whiplash.

Again, he realizes that he has parts missing where they should not be missing and parts added—enlarged—where they are not naturally so swollen. It is as though this is how he always was. But, that is so wrong. The aberrant pillows of fatty flesh underneath his pajama shirt are quite attached to him. His penis isn’t, and that is what sparks a memory.

“England?”

“I remember what happened.”

He turns back around slowly. “Wanna share?”

“Might as well.”

 

~*~

 

England huffed through the door of his London flat, pausing to scan the table in the entry as he toed off his shoes.

He muttered, patting down his jacket pockets twice over, and made his way toward the kitchen. “Blast! Where’s my bloody mobile phone!” He searched the counter, kitchen table, and then dashed up the stairs. He mentally retraces his steps, and remembered his meeting that morning had been postponed an hour, so he took his morning tea in the ground floor guest room he had converted into a study.

He barreled into the room and stopped. The room was a mess: a discarded linen dress draped over his desk chair, a pair of well loved heels toed off near the door—he had almost tripped over them. His eyes scoured the room. A green hair ribbon lay in the middle of the floor near a partially opened weekend travel bag, as well loved as the shoes, and they matched. On the side table were half a biscuit and a half cup of cooling tea. Heavy breathing alerted him to the huddled figure on the couch, ensconced in one of his handmade blankets. Northern Ireland. She groaned.

The mound of quilting curled into the fetal position. “Must you think so loudly?”

He spoke to her back. “What happened in here?”

“Stopped for a kip,” she sounded pained; her accent thicker than it usually was.

“I see that, but why?”

“Thought I’d visit on my way home from Wales’s house?”

“Again, why?” Still, he spoke to her back.

“Just let me be.” Her coppery curls shifted.

“North, I don’t mind you staying here, really, but…”

Finally, she turned over to face him. “How generous…”

“But why make a mess of my study?”

“Thought it was a guest room. You moved the bed out?”

“Yes, to make it a study.”

“That’s fine.” She pulled the quilt back over her. “The couch is less lumpy anyway.”

“Now see here!”

“I’d rather not, thanks.” She turned over again.

He huffed and carefully sat in his desk chair, trying not to disturb any of her belongings and searched through the drawers. “I still don’t see why you had to make such a mess.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ll clean up. Just,” she groaned. “Just not now.”

England's brows furrowed. Northern Ireland almost sounded like she was in pain. She definitely shouldn't be curled and cramped up on that sofa, all contorted and twisted. Even looking at her, he cringed. Just as carefully, stood from the chair and made his way to stand over her. “If you’re in such need of rest you should get yourself to a proper bed.”

“Really?” she sniffled and mumbled into the pillow. “I couldn't make it up the stairs.”

He brushed her dampened fringe from her forehead and carded his fingers through her hair. “You’d be better off. I could carry you, love.”

“Oh, just leave me alone.” Northern Ireland shifted as though to recoil, not so much from his hand, but from his general presence. 

Befuddled by her displeasure, he quickly retracted his hand and backed away a step. “What’s with you. Is it…that time?”

“Heh. He can try to mention it, but he can’t actually say it. Typical.”

“No need to get miffed at me.” He could curse himself for sounding so defensive. “I'm trying to be helpful.”

“Miffed? Miffed!” She grunted and slowly rolled over to face him again. 

“Just calm down, and I’ll fetch you a fresh cup of tea.”

“And now you’re patronizing me, are you?”

“Now, now, calm down. I’m just trying to be kind.” And, he was more than willing to try to make her more comfortable if she would only cooperate. Even a little bit.

“And, now I know you’re just patronizing me.”

“I am not!” He was going to be late getting back from lunch at this rate; he fought the urge to glance at the clock or his watch. “You’re just in a…in a mood.”

She rose from her little ball of quilting, bundling it up and keeping it balled close to her stomach. “I’m in a mood!?”

“I don’t know what else to call you being so snippy.” He should have just done without his mobile phone and stayed at the meeting, but he was expecting a call from Alfred.

“I just want some peace.”

“And I just want my study to stay tidy.”

“I’ll straighten up later.” She cast a forlorn look at her tea cup, probably sure that she wasn't going to get any now.

He didn't have time to do much more than collect his mobile phone and dash back out the door for his meeting. “Have you, by chance, seen my mobile?”

“No.” She lay back down, and pulled the blanket to her chin. “It’s winter, Artie. Why do you have it so cold in your house?”

“Because I wasn’t in it. Where’s your phone? I shall try to call mine. The meeting will start back soon.”

“Oh! Your precious meetings!”

“Yes, my precious meetings.” He glanced from her dress to her bags, around his desk. He would really rather not leave, but start up a nice fire in the fireplace and curl up beside her with a fresh, hot cuppa for the both of them.

“In my handbag on yer desk.”

“Ah, yes, under your stockings.” He lifted them with a pen and laid them over the top of her dress. 

“So squeamish, you are.”

“Girl, if you can grouse at me so, you can get up and clean this room.”

She groaned. “Please, no. Not now, Art.”

“Yes, now.”

“But I hurt.” It wasn’t quite a whine, but it made him cringe with regret anyway.

He punched in his mobile number. “And I’m going to be late.” He snatched up his phone where it rested on his desk, hidden by her other stocking, and answered and cancelled the call in one motion. “These things are a bit old fashioned, aren’t they?”

“Ugh, this is why I left Wales. But, at least he was a little more understanding.” She hugged her pillow.

“I think I’ve been plenty understanding.”

“I’ll clean the room if you bring me some kind of pain killer. Any kind of pain killer.”

“I’ll grab the aspirn--”

“No! Anything but that!”

“You said any.”

“Just not that one. My iron’s low enough as it is.”

“Fine, fine.”

He dashed to the kitchen her a glass of water, and some paracetamol. When he returned she was back in a fetal position and had resumed the light groaning that he had initially mistaken for heavy breathing. He nudged her. “Katherine, here.”

“Stop. Stop it.”

“I barely touched you.” He handed her the pills and the glass of water.

“Ugh, men…” She gulped down the pills, but made no move to rise. “Thanks.”

“Kitty?”

“Look, Arthur, I feel like I’ve been stabbed, understand? I will pick up the wee bit of clutter that has you in a tizzy when I can move without jarring my insides.”

“Katherine, don’t be over-dramatic. I know you‘ll clean. You‘re almost as particular as I am.” He just managed not to chuckle. His attempt at humour would, no doubt be poorly received. She sent him an icy stare, and he took a step back. “Fine, I’m going. But, I’ll be needing the use of my office when I return. I have to go. Feel better, love.”

“Every man should have to go through this” She muttered. “A really good one. I wish you would.” She groaned as he dashed away. He closed the door behind him as gently as he could in his haste.

 

~*~

 

“So, you think she cursed you or something?”

“Well, I didn’t make it back home to do any work that day, and she was gone when I returned. Ireland took me out for a drink after the meeting.”

“So, you’re saying Kat cursed you?”

“Don’t let her hear you call her that.” He pointed a warning finger at America. “No. Northern Ireland likes silly little curses, practical jokes, but mixes them up with the big ones. Ireland never makes mistakes with magic. I don’t really know what happened. I just know that this is a curse, and it’s Kate’s work. Now that I think about it, hers is definitely the magic I feel.”

“I don’t know about you, but this seems like a pretty serious curse to me.”

“That’s because it is.”

America stands and collects their cups to get seconds, reaching across the table to pull England’s teacup closer. He pauses and hums, lingering just beside him, his eyes closed. America’s shoulders tighten, and he tries not to drop the cups. He is too close for too long, he suddenly realizes. But it smells so good, standing by England, and he doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t drink tea much anymore, but still likes the way it smells. Likes the way it smells on England. He is mesmerized.

“Watch it.” England nudges him, though America's shoulders don’t relax as he comes back to his senses with a shake of his head. “Wake up. Do you need more coffee or something?”

“Huh? I-I just spaced. Yeah, I totally spaced out. Was gonna get us both seconds anyway, though.”

Still distracted by the fragrant aroma of bergamot, honey, petrichor, and something still distinctively England, but newly feminine, he glances back between England and refilling their drinks. He decides to make some oatmeal. Maybe it would settle their stomachs to have something simple in them. England looks just like he smells: subtly pleasant and strong underneath, still England, but pretty and less prickly. Although, he knows that despite the alterations to his appearance, it is still the same England staring back at him with concern. Still just as prickly despite appearances. He pauses, and their gazes connect. He is caught staring, but cannot help himself. He is mesmerized.

“Stop that!” England grumbles, collapsing back against the chair as America approaches, setting down their bowls and then turning to get their cups, England’s tea should be ready now—he hopes. “You’re staring, and I know I look horrid, but-”

“No!” America almost drops his coffee cup on the table, eyes wide and desperate. “You’re-you’re not!”

“I look…all awkward.”

Katherine knew what she was doing with that curse; she must have, and America suddenly wishes that he believed in magic more, so he could curse her right back. England is a natural beauty. “No. You’re…you’re…”

“What?” England’s voice is dry; it pierces like his eyes—very attractive when angry, bright and full of life. America always wishes he would smile, though.

America feels every bit like the teenager he resembles, more awkward than his muscles credit him. “Really pretty.” He cringes, because those aren’t the words he wanted to use, and not the way he wanted to say them, all mumbled and squeaky and scared. “And you smell nice.” He cringes again. He wants his thoughts to stop spilling from his mouth, or he would compliment other things his teenage mentality observes, and looks determinedly into the green of England’s shiny eyes, even though they sting. No lower than the eyes. His hand tightens on his spoon, and he quickly takes mouthful of oatmeal.

England looks stricken. Neither says anything through breakfast.

 

~*~

 

England lurks by the stairwell, sitting on the top step and leaning back against the wall, watching America fix the bedroom door. He can’t think of why he felt so compelled to observe. He had wanted to put forth an offer to accompany him to the store for supplies, but America left him with the dishes. He could hardly keep his mind on anything, because everything seemed so different now: the need to fidget and readjust his clothing or flick his hair out of the way and back behind his shoulders (proof that women didn't just do that as a means of flirting it was the practical need to get their damnably unruly hair out of the way). And, now he can only watch as Alfred bent, staring down old metal fittings, trying to make them fit with the newer ones he purchased at the store. The broad plans of his back tense as he works.

He wishes that he had taken the chance to watch America work his wonders with repairs of the door itself, but he had completed that portion of the job outside and didn’t want to peer out at him from the window. Alfred was always dexterous, a craftsman of natural talent. They had that in common. They are mesmerizing, those nimble fingers. England cannot think of the last time he has watched America concentrate so long and so hard about anything in years—other than a video game. He realizes, he cannot think of the last time he has paid this much attention to America in even longer than that, even though they have their periodic friendly chats after various nation meetings. Several decades? A century?

Alfred had his hair trimmed shortly before his visit, only the strand of Nantucket strays when he combs his finger through his hair, a nervous habit. His eyes still narrow when he concentrates, but his face remains relaxed and boyish. Some things don’t change. He still crosses his legs the way young children do; it does not make him appear young, but youthful and unexpectedly flexible. Alfred still bites his cuticles, but only when nervous, and does so as he looks for a screw that rolled away while he examined the holes he had pre-screwed in the wood.

When America sets the knob down and reaches for the wayward screw, England hums at the graceful way his muscles stretch. The sound alerts him, and he looks up from his search. He doesn’t seem surprised to find England watching. He smiles, mouth closed with no teeth showing. Unusual. His skills in espionage are usually an equal match for America. But, England is spotted—was not hidden in the first place, like he had thought—he tosses over the wayward screw and dashes back down the stairs to the refuge of his study.

Paperwork has no messy emotions to respond in turn. The pile on England's desk will not do itself, regardless. And, he has misplaced his laptop among his papers. And, he really should dust the bookshelves, probably put away his needlework from the side table. And, the list is endless. There is too much to do and not enough time in which to do it.

They make their way through the day separately, joining back in the kitchen at midday to eat in silence at lunch time and for dinner. They barely speak a word to each other through the course of the day. The only words uttered are of quick thanks to America for fixing the bedroom door and their meals. England holes up in his study, atypical for a Sunday, and the rest of the day passes in a blur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if the pronoun situation is confusing please let me know. It's kind of important. England is kind of out of his element right now. Thank you!


	3. You Walk Around Here Like You Wanna Be Someone Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I am late with this chapter. It was supposed to go up a couple days ago.
> 
> Liam is is Scotland, Dylan is Wales.

**Chapter 3 – You Walk Around Here Like You Wanna Be Someone Else**

 

Sometime during the course of Monday, England’s identity crisis turns troubling and distracting. Perhaps it is the pull of his shirts or the way his trousers slouch in the waist and pool at the ankles. Maybe it is the fact that the desk chair isn’t as comfortable as it should be or the way his arms bump against her chest and the way he crosses her legs.

Argh!

No, no, no! No!

Possibly, it occurred whenever he had to use the toilet. Or, all of the reasons combined that scream at him. When England stands by the sink to rinse out their dishes and turns to face America's throat instead of his nose, it sends him running out of the room.

Whatever the reason, England cannot get any more work done with thoughts of his plight chasing tail around his mind. It’s hard, because England is not a woman deep down inside and all of these alterations—these aberrations—that he must live with make him want to scratch at her skin and pinch himself to wake up. And, that is hardly a mature reaction from a centuries-long skilled magic practitioner. He's suffered through much worse curses than this. Some of them self-inflicted.

England sighs.

This will surely end sometime. This she-he-she business is exhausting. This is for simplicity’s sake and nothing else. It doesn't mean he is comfortable with things. A dozen sayings come to mind as she decides to embrace the situation and see what can be done to rectify things in their due course. 

So, England finishes one last document and drags herself away from her desk on tiptoe, not wishing to bother Alfred on the couch, hunched and working on his laptop with papers spread all around him.

But she stops, starring at America as he works. After fixing the door, what had Alfred done yesterday?

She hates for him to feel so unnerved. Hates the distance between them and the way they haven’t been lingering in each other’s shadows as they normally do.

She retreats to the kitchen for a cup of tea and returns to her study with a guilty conscience. Alfred came to see her on one of his rare vacations. England had invited him; he asked his boss for extra time off between the G8 and World Meetings, since they were scheduled so closely together—only a couple weeks apart.

What had Alfred done yesterday?

She sets down the glass of iced tea she brought him on the side table. “Alfred, why must you make such a mess?” That is not what she had wanted to say at all. She crosses her arms awkwardly over her chest, her button-down bunching and pulling. America does not look at her directly, hasn’t since breakfast yesterday morning. She feels self-conscious as it is. She…it was so bizarre being a “she.” He was not a she. Half the time, it was a struggle not to trip over her feet whenever England thought about it—and didn’t want to think any more about using the toilet.

“We don’t talk for a day, and now you go and fuss at me?” America pouts, and still does not look up.

“I can’t believe you. Alfred, just look at this mess!” No that isn‘t right. Why is she fussing?! She huffs. “Look at me!”

“I can’t do both at the same time, England.” 

She takes a good, hard look at America. “At me, then.” He starts to lift his head toward her, but looks at the papers on the floor instead. “Look at me?”

His neck shifts and his head lifts, but his gaze remains stubbornly lowered—how childish. “Alfred,” she begins, but is distracted. There is a small line of red along the line of America’s jaw. She manhandles his face to see what it is. “What the bleeding hell did you do to your jaw? Did you shave blind?”

“No.” America’s voice is strangely quiet and hesitant, and he dips his head out of her grasp. “It happens every time I’m shaving when your kettle goes off.”

“Oh. Sorry.” England pats at the condensation on Amerca's iced tea glass with her handkerchief and dabs at the cuts. His face is still smooth, the skin soft, and discovers through a quick intake of breath that he uses a lightly musky after shave lotion. There is a matching cut on the other side of his face. “Twice? You cut yourself twice?”

He nods. “Yesterday morning and today. The thing startles me, okay?”

“I'll be more mindful of my kettle in the mornings.” England giggles and America’s cheeks pink in response. It’s endearing. She nearly drops the handkerchief, because she finds that he looks cute and precious with the bit of extra coloring in his cheeks. “Ahem! Please be more careful, Alfred. I don't want you bleeding out and passing out on me.” She would make sure not to start her kettle while he’s shaving, if that were possible.

“Ah, Alfred, what have you been up to while I’ve been so, ah, distracted?”

“Working.”

“You work on the weekends?”

“Yeah, some. When my boss bugs me. He did a lot yesterday afternoon. I was holed up in my room on my phone a lot yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to go to the World Meeting tomorrow.” America shuffles a few papers around.

“I what?”

“I didn’t tell you? Ugh! Of course I didn’t tell you.” Once again, America evades eye contact and his words trip over each other. “But, yeah, I called your boss and said that you were sick, and to contact Scotland or someone to fill in for you. Or that I could take notes for you. But, England, I’ll totally record the whole thing! Promise!”

“Slow down, Alfred. Breathe.” She fights the urge to both laugh and scream. 

“Sorry, Ar-England.”

England decides that he should keep track of the times that America avoids saying his human name.

“I’d really rather not miss the meeting, Alfred.”

“You wanna go looking like a girl?” He spits the word “girl” like it's a curse that shouldn't be said in polite company.

“I'm not some abhorent creature, Alfred. And, it isn’t as though my magic was at fault.”

“That’s true enough.”

“I thank you for your concern, but I won’t let this get in the way of my job. I’m going, that’s final.”

“Okay, then, you call and cancel.”

“What!? Fan-bloody-tastic. I can’t believe that you called anyway.” How responsible of him for a change. She leaves him on the couch, still staring at the floor, and fishes her mobile phone from under a stack of papers on the desk. It's time to send a few text messages.

 

~*~

 

“I’m driving you there. No arguments.”

“I can drive on the wrong side of the road, England.”

“Absolutely not. You make my point for me.”

“I’m sorry, that your boss had called Scotland for the meeting. I asked Wales. I did! Just let me drive.”

“No. I’m sure you did, Alfred,” England huffs. “I'm sure you did. I’d have been able to convince Dylan to forget it all. Liam is a different matter.” She swallows the last of her tea. “Do they…do they happen to know about…?”

“No. Well, I didn’t tell them anything. Just that you weren’t feeling well.”

“Good. I wonder the likelihood that North told them.” England takes their dishes to the sink.

“Slim to none. Dylan didn’t even chuckle when I was talking to him. Wouldn’t they, like, be all over a bad joke like this?”

“Quite.” England breath caught in her throat. “Alfred…”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

She sighs. Of course, he wouldn’t make this easy. “For thinking of all this as a bad joke.”

“Well, it is. You’re really pretty and all, but it is.”

She blushes and does not know how to respond to America's comment. “We should get going, so you make it to the meeting on time.”

“I’ll be early.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” And, anything to get out of the conversation. 

“Ar-England…”

“Alfred, you can…can’t you…just. Just call me by my name!”

“But, but that’s weird, Ar-Arthur! It doesn’t exactly suit you right now.”

That’s true enough, but still. “It’s my name!” She turns toward him, as she wiggles into her shoes. Alfred cringes at the exclamation. “What name, pray tell, would better suit me?”

“I don’t know, but Arthur doesn’t.” He forces his feet in his shoes with a huff, and shoulders his laptop bag. “Rose? I don’t know!”

“Rose?” The name tickles England fancy, making her laugh before she realizes why. “You’ve thought about this.”

“Yeah, ‘cause your pretty…like a rose. And prickly,” he mutters a little too quickly and holds the door open for her.

England is surprised that he had ever been enough of an influence to gift him with such gentlemanly manners…or maybe it is what one of America's superheroes would do? She'll take what she can get, and smiles in spite of herself.

“You’re sweet and flighty.” She decides not to mention the other thoughts that plague her mind. America grins, and that makes her happy enough. He does not get the car door for her, but it might be because of her insistence on driving. Once America gets settled, she starts the car, and resolves to end the name problem. “How about Rosalind?” She wonders if he will pick on on her joke, but it is a name she can live with in any case.

“Can I call you Rosa?”

She sighs, keeping her gaze fixed on the busy streets ahead. Of course he would resort to a nickname and miss the joke all in one go. “I would rather you call me Rose.”

She likes this, whatever this is, between them. It is comfortable again.

 

~*~

 

England returns home after dropping America off at the convention center and stopping for some extra food, poking around the house, tidying rooms that don’t need attention. She tries a spell and potion or two, or two dozen; they all come to naught and only leave her feeling ill, depressed and contemplating calling Northern Ireland for any idea to help develop the counter-curse. She knows that wouldn’t go well, at all. She wanders into the kitchen to make some scones…maybe being a woman will help her cooking skills. Deep down England knows that's hogwash. It doesn't matter; her stomach feels all twisted into knots, so she heads up stairs for a short nap instead.

 

~*~

 

She is stirred by her mobile. “Hello, Alfred.”

“Where are you? Weren’t we were gonna go to lunch?”

“I’m afraid I’m not really feeling up to it.”

“Are you all right?” If she didn’t know better, he sounds hurt and half-panicked, perhaps he is.

“I’m fine, just tried a few cures for this curse. They left my stomach unsettled.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry to hear that.” He is disappointed, and that makes her feel disappointed.

“We can have dinner out tonight instead?”

“Okay! You can pick anywhere.” Just like a little boy, so easily disappointed and excited again. “You should go shopping and get something nice. Give me the receipts later, and I’ll take care of it.”

The confidence with which he said those words suggests that he spent a great deal of the meeting thinking about her. Thinking about England just as England? Or as female? America seems to think quite highly of his female self. She resolves not to delve too deeply into those waters. At least, she won't have to suffer through McDonald’s.

“Very well, Alfred. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, England!” America clears his throat and lowers his voice. “Bye Rose.” And the line goes dead.

 

~*~

 

“I’m real sorry, England!”

“Sorry about what, Alfred?” She pauses, her dress still open in the back. Five minutes of struggling in the bra, her arms were sore and she is tired of fiddling with the zipper to the dress.

“Canada is here and saying that we all had plans for dinner, and his boss planned a meeting for us and- and--”

“Alfred, are you standing me up?”

“What?! No!” America whines, loudly, and England hears a muffled voice on the other end; it is probably Canada. “I’d like for you to go.”

“Good, because I’m half-dressed now.”

He makes a strange, strangled little wheezing sound. “But, do you want people to see you like you are?”

“I thought you told me I was pretty?” She cringes, because that has nothing to do with what Alfred was really asking. “I don’t mean that. And, and I know what you meant. No, I don’t really, but maybe Canada would be okay?”

“That’s totally up to you.”

A very adult thing to say and she is surprised. “I, um, I…Go ahead and have dinner with Matthew. Tell him I say ‘hello’, will you?”

“Sure thing, England. Keep getting better, okay,” he says for Canada’s benefit; no doubt he is listening to Alfred's half of the conversation. “And, keep Rose company for me.”

The dress she had planned to wear reminded her of Alfred’s eyes, sky blue. England didn’t really want to wear it, didn’t feel comfortable in a dress. So, she slips it off and puts it away with the couple of others she bought that afternoon—what an awkward shopping trip that was. He had no business in those sections of stores. (Underwear shopping will plague England for the rest of his days.) England disentangles herself from the bra and flings it to the back of the wardrobe. Instead, she pulls out the new pajamas she bought. They fit, even look like his old favorites, a nice red and gold plaid pattern, and they don’t hang baggy off of her slender curves like a sack.

 

~*~

 

England falls asleep with a book by the fireplace, and wakes in her bed in the morning to an empty house. She assumes it is empty, after wandering past America’s bedroom on her way to her morning cup of tea. Absent are his light snores; the house is silent. He left for the second day of the meeting without saying good-bye. How rude.

She bundles up and spends the morning in the back garden, neglecting her work, even though it is a Wednesday.

She drags herself back inside for lunch, and holes up in her study again, her fax machine and email overflowing with neglected work.

Alfred does not return for dinner. She knows she should have called him hours ago, so she rings him now.

“Yeah?” He shouts into his receiver over blaring background noise.

“Alfred, is everything okay? What’s going on?”

“Canada and Neddy dragged me out for drinks after the meeting.” The background noise confirms this.

“I really wish you would have called me.”

“Sorry, Rose.”

“Who is Rosa anyway?” He hears another voice on the other side of the line—Canada.

“Shit,” he mutters. “My-my…my friend!” Alfred answers to Canada.

“Your…your what?” This second voice sounds a lot like the Netherlands.

“A girl friend, Alfred?” Canada again.

“What kind of friend do you have who—ow!” The voice is cut off, leaving England wondering what who-ever-it-was might have said. Alfred has moved somewhere quieter, the sounds of wherever-he-was now sound muffled and distant.

“Oh my god, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! I'm really, really sorry!”

“Bugger off! You forget about me, neglect to inform me of your plans, and then have to gall to—. You know what!? I-I don’t fucking care! Do whatever you want, Alfred!”

“Wait! I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother!” England feels belittled and appalled. Her anger festers at the slight. “I loath you.”

“Don’t be like that. I really wanted to take you out. But…Look, I’m sorry! I really…”

“It doesn’t matter! I can tell you don't care in the least.”

“What? No! That's not true!”

“I don’t know if I believe you, Alfred.” America had seemed so sincere, and hadn’t really treated England any differently thus far, just with caution as apposed to disgust. He had only acted scared and nervous. But, he forgot. Just forgot? England couldn't understand.

“Well, fine then. Sorry anyway.” He still sounds skittish and unsure.

They really were friends, very good friends. They had the Special Relationship.

This is all overwhelming, and she feels more than a little silly; England is supposed to be both sick and taking care of himself?—being both Arthur and Rose. It is confusing being compelled to act as two people and the same person mentally. All these machinations to conceal the curse are trying his patience. And, he is flustered about not being at the meeting. It isn’t completely Alfred’s fault. He has been so helpful. Everything was so confusing. It made her head hurt. Who could think like this?

“Wait, Alfred I …“But, she realizes that Alfred has already ended the call. “I’m sorry…” She was going to apologize for her rash words. This kind of thing always happened to them, and the abrupt ending of their conversation adds to her regret and sudden melancholy. 

England goes to bed early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If by red and gold pyjamas you were thinking Gryffindor, I am not going to tell you otherwise as I can see England wearing Harry Potter themed or inspired memorabilia. Nevermind me...
> 
> If you're looking for the period bit, I'm cruel and letting England get comfortable with the bad situation before I drop the other shoe.
> 
> Chapter title was inspired by "Treasure" by Bruno Mars.


	4. Dancing Through the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which England has occasion to get snarky with Prussia and makes her mind up about something.

England awakens to a rainbow of fifteen thorn-less roses—pink, red, white, yellow—and a tea pot and cup on the bedside table. A simple unsigned note of “I’m sorry,” is posed between the stems; no signature is needed, the careful, but poor penmanship and simple little squiggly frown-face speak for themselves. The tea is warm, and tastes palatable enough to sip. She smiles, and feels at ease.

Through the morning, England finds herself carrying the vase of roses along with her as she goes from room to room. They are not from her garden, because it is winter and most of her roses are multi-hued and these are all solid colors. They are lovely, and make her feel a little less lonely.

Maybe Alfred knows more about the meaning of the name she chose for herself after all, and remembers the floriography trend of a century and a half ago but, then again, Alfred is fond of roses, too.

Around mid-morning, her mobile rings. It is America, she can tell by the ring-tone, and must dash around to answer in time. It is in the kitchen next to the tea pot.

“Everything okay, England?”

She catches her breath. “Yes, just misplaced my mobile. What is it, Alfred?”

“Didn’t want to call too early.”

“It’s the middle of the week.”

“Haha, right.” He clears his throat and proceeds so quickly that she is unable to remark on his quip about her sleeping habits. “So the tea was still hot?”

“Yes, the tea was warm enough.”

“Whew! I was worried it would get cold, and then you’d be mad at me all over again for wasting tea or something.” His words almost tripped over each other.

“I’m not mad. I’m sorry I got angry with you last night.”

“Nah, I was a dick. Mattie told me.” So the roses were Matthew’s idea, she sighed. “But, the roses were my idea! He said to make you breakfast in bed, but we were meeting early again, and that wouldn’t work so I--” Alfred would babble indefinitely if not stopped.

“Yes. Thank you, Alfred. The roses were lovely.” She stroked the stem of a yellow petal lightly with her knuckles.

“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t still mad. I mean, I like that we’re talking again.”

“I do as well. I will see you later, won’t I?”

“Yeah! Mine and Mattie’s bosses are heading home after lunch.”

“So, I’ll see you soon.”

“Yep!”

 

~*~

 

Alfred seemed to like the dresses she bought the other day —even though England still can’t quite manage to wear one out of the house—and he demands the receipts from the purchases, put up a fuss until she acquiesced. He especially likes the mini-fashion show she pus on for him. She prances and twirls and makes fun of herself. Alfred pokes fun at England as well, and that makes her feel a bit better. They laugh until tears roll down their cheeks and their sides hurt, and when they recover, they order take-away.

America emails a copy of the recorded meetings for England to try and find the time to listen to. She scans a copy of his notes when she convinces him that she really can read his handwriting after so many years of complaining otherwise, although it is a challenge, and his cheeks blush strawberry pink.

They spend time together as planned, since America is on vacation now, though alternating between fun and work. Alfred continues to treat England much the same way he did before the curse. For that she is very grateful, and tells him so, but she notices the continued discomfort in his eyes and the way he hesitates when they are close. They have played that game for centuries; though friends for years, some things were hard to overcome.

When Alfred chose to work—a video call with his boss or secretary—she makes her way down to her basement to try to break the curse again, but gives up after a several more futile attempts. She finds nothing; there is no use in wasting the time and continually making herself ill from the effort. England's books all say the same thing: know the curse and work from backward from there. But, England doesn't know what exactly the curse was, she is stuck. Working further on the counter-curse would mean contacting Northern Ireland, and she does not wish to admit defeat. Maybe the whole mess will work itself out in time? There is no telling how long that might be. She elects to try it again later, and if further undesirable side-effects manifest, then she will give Northern Ireland an ear lashing.

Alfred takes her out to dinner night after night, and she feels rather pampered. He never even suggests that it is to keep her out of the kitchen. They almost feel like dates, but she wrests the bill from him a few times. Around a week after the absentee incident, Matthew shows up again with Gilbert in tow and an invitation for a night out on them—which really means on Matthew.

 

~*~

 

“Alfred, I don’t want to go out. I don’t have anything appropriate to wear like this.” England blanches, staring into her wardrobe that she made an “I have nothing to wear” comment.

“You wanna get something appropriate for a place Gilbert would drag us to? And, who knows what that'll even be!” Alfred's brows furrow and he frowns. “You really wanna go shopping again?”

“Well, no.” She swallows hard, remembering her previous experience. “I don't know.”

He rubs at the back of his neck. “Wear whatever you want, Rosie.”

“Do not call me that ever again, you git.” She gives him a playful, but firm punch in the chest.

“Sure, sure.” He squeezes her arm; the touch is unexpected but not unwelcome. “Hey! I know! I’ll take us shopping. Get us both something new!”

She reaches up and strokes his cheek, and is surprised at the shadow of light, coarse stubble on his chin and jaw line, and tickles at it. Alfred has not yet shaved and it feels like he didn’t yesterday or the day before either. “Shouldn’t you go shave before we leave?” But, it looks oddly nice on him and she almost regrets her comment. It makes him look oddly rugged; it would make Canada look shifty, like France—with their long hair—it makes Alfred look gallant and charming. Suddenly, she is surprised at their easy touches; they are nice, comforting. She scratches lightly at the stubble and smiles when he leans into the touch.

“It’s only shopping.”

As they dash out the door, she notices that he forgot to shave.

 

*~*

 

Arthur has been clubbing before, knows the standard attire for the occasion: band t-shirts, leather, boots, jackets. He has a special wardrobe for fitting into the scene collected over the decades. As Rosalind, she feels inherently more uncomfortable with the clothes he remembers seeing girls wear on his nights out. At least, as Rosalind, she can still wear the boots with a pair of thicker socks, and her chest size prevents her favorite leather jacket from being too baggy. It is the pull of the band t-shirt across her chest and the fit of the skinny black trousers the salesgirl selected for her that bother her so much, and she could just curse the powers that be for separating her from Alfred in the store. Those two salesgirls must have been conspiring against them. It was as though, suddenly, clothes didn’t feel right anymore. Everything was too tight and made her feel like a balloon. The trousers might as well have been painted on; with her new curves she feels uncomfortably on display. She does not buys the shirt, preferring instead to rely on her talents to alter something she has at home, but she allows Alfred to purchase the trousers for her out of necessity for a proper inseam fit. She found a new Trilby for her worries, but it does little to make up for the distress of being a guinea pig.

 

~*~

 

From upstairs, she hears Matthew and Gilbert arguing when Alfred answers the door. They are more than thirty minutes late—no doubt Gilbert’s fault.

“Hey Freddo, why’re we picking you up from Eyebrow’s house?” England bristles at Prussia’s voice and scowls at the mirror as she does finishing touches on her eyeliner, which does nothing to help the line—at least that is something England already knows how to do—and remembers how to do it well. The makeup is a temporary work of art. “Not awesome. He’s not coming to spoil our little party, is he?”

England knows that Prussia knows that Arthur knows how to let loose and party, but won’t say anything about the slight. No need to endanger their ploy before the night begins. She pauses at the top of the staircase to hear Alfred’s answer.

“Nah, um,” America leaves an awkward pause, “England’s not feeling so great. I told you I was bringing my friend.”

Canada chuckles. “Right, Alfred, your friend…”

“That’s what this sudden night out is for, right? For me to prove that I didn’t make her up. Isn’t it?”

Neither Canada nor Prussia responds, but give each other a pointed side-eye glance. It most definitely is.

“So where is Arthur?” Canada asks, and sounds like he’s trying to trick America.

“Upstairs.” Alfred doesn't have to lie. “He isn’t coming.” The convenient wording is an irony that makes England laugh as she finally descends the stairs. “But this is Rosalind.”

Wearing such tight trousers, as a woman, feels strange. Maybe it is the alien feeling of the body. England smooths her black silk shirt and pulls her leather jacket close to keep from squirming. All eyes are on her. Suddenly, she feels empowered by their enraptured attention, and laps it up, slinking downstairs with all the finesse of a lioness on the prowl.

Her attention strays to America. Alfred’s smile is the most genuine; the outsides of his eyes crinkle and his cheeks redden. He offers her his hand, but she doesn’t take it, sidetracked by Prussia’s wolf-whistling; Canada elbows him in the side.

“Ello,” she smiles at America and Canada, and scowls at Prussia. “Hello, Matthew. Gilbert.” She turns her attention back to the Canadian.

“Yes. You. You're. Uou look familiar.” Canada’s eyes do a quick double-take between her and a photograph of England and America on display in a curio cabinet.

She glances at America a moment, wondering how she should play this, and is distracted by the thick stubble still present on his jaw, chin, and cheeks. Alfred’s cheeks redden further and he rubs his palms over his tight black jeans. His breath hitches, and she can tell he is fighting the urge to fidget by the way he rocks on his toes.

Prussia laughs and wraps an arm around her waist.

“Hands off, twat face!” So much for being a lady. Prussia does that to people, and the moment is broken. Canada doubles over in quiet sniggers.

America laughs and punches Prussia in the shoulder just hard enough to move him a couple steps away from England.

Canada chuckles continue, but his doubt is still evident, even to Alfred.

“Ow.” Prussia whines, taking a step back, almost cowering behind Canada, he rubs at the spot that will certainly bruise.

America and England share a knowing glace, and he offers her his arm once again, which she accepts this time.

 

~*~

 

The nightclub is classier than expected, an old fashioned jazz club. Bouncing with energy, but the music isn’t quite as loud as those England usually frequents with Prussia and Denmark. She gets few chances to dance with Alfred during the night. Canada steals her away for questioning during their first attempt; she easily evades answering due to the noise and a random bloke cuts in to end the inquiry. Just before her second attempt to dance with Alfred, Canada steals him away, he says with an icy purple gleam, for a brotherly chat. And that is that.

She wanders back to the bar, and signals for the bartender. He is occupied, unfortunately, with a tall, leggy brunette at the opposite end of the bar. She’s very pretty, and England can understand why the man allows himself to be distracted from his job. Still, she sighs.

She contemplates chatting the girl up, but her thoughts shatter with an unexpected tap to her shoulder.

“Why is Alfred’s birdie by herself? May I join you? No one should have to drink alone.” Prussia smiles as he perches on the bar stool next to her. She looks away, so he doesn't see how her cheeks redden.

England is still unsure how to respond. But she welcomes the company, at least from someone she knows. She finally musters the courage to face him. “I'm no one's bird.”

“Then, the awesome me can keep you company.”

“Suit yourself” She sighs again. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping Alfred and Matthew.”

“Never mind them. Let’s have fun.”

“Sure, why the hell not. I’ve nothing better to do.”

Prussia buys her another drink. After a conversation revolving around glamorized stories of Prussia’s “awesome” exploits—England knows the true stories, and they aren't all so grandiose—he pulls her out to the dance floor. The first dance is fun; he twirls her across the floor. Prussia was always a good dancer, with footwork of military precision. She laughs when he twirls her around, unaccustomed to the head rush of not leading. They have both had untold hours of practice at various ballroom dances and with dance partners at social events through their long existence. Dancing is simpler than politics, as easy as warfare, comparable to international relations for nations. There is a reason they compare it to the naturalness of sex. But less messy.

“You know, you have very pretty eyes,” Prussia smiles, all teeth and pink-red eyes, as he pulls her closer.

She smiles and he dips her and they twirl. “Thank you.”

However fun it is, it feels wrong being in his arms. Gilbert and Alfred are the same height, but their builds are quite different. Alfred is just a bit broader through the shoulders and chest—his voice a bit warmer, his hands larger. Even their smell! Alfred smells clean and mellow and natural. Whatever soap Prussia had used smells cloyingly sweet like he had been rubbing against France, smoky and sweaty and acrid.

When had everything about Alfred become comfortable?

For their second dance, the music tempo slows, and Prussia gets chummy with England’s curves. He’s practically an octopus. How could she have forgotten that?!

Would Alfred have done this? Gotten so bold in his advances? She isn’t sure that she would mind so much if it was Alfred. Alfred would probably even have asked, semi-prudish man-boy that he is. Or just tripped over himself or his feet. His natural awkwardness is adorably endearing.

But here, now, with the music thrumming in her ears, through her stomach, England feels nauseated. She turns her back to Prussia—a mistake. He cackles and presses against her—so close she can feel his stomach, his groin and he grinds against her backside. His movements do not coordinate with the music. He must be half-plastered. It makes her feel cheap. His laugh sounds like an ailing chicken. His hands run down her stomach, across her hips, grope her thighs. England has done this with girls, had girls do this with him, had other men do this to him before. Most seemed to have enjoyed it, tittered or flirted back. But, this feels so different. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome. Her skin recoils at his touch, and she bats his hands away. They return a few beats later, more persistent. What changed?

“Get off, Gilbert!” She pulls away.

“Oh! You’re spunky.”

“Spunky? I’ll show you spunky if you don’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“What’re you? A prude?”

“Hardly.” If Prussia realized who he was talking to, he never would have said that. England has never been a prude. 

“I’m a-ah. I'm a lady!” Oh god. England wished someone would just hit him in the head now. Why was he saying these things?

“Of course you are, gorgeous. All woman.”

“I mean it. Keep your hands off me, Prussia!” Oh no. Thankfully, Prussia didn't seem to notice the slip. He loops his arms around her waist and pulls her close to move with the music—something he does with women all the time—and grabs England's ass. That's it.

She screeches, attracting attention. “Get off me, Gilbert!” She growls and head-butts him.

“Shit! That hurt!” He uses his momentum to yank her arm and swirls her back into his grip.

“You aren’t at all ashamed that you’re hitting on someone else’s date? Are you?”

“You said you weren't Alfred's bird.” She cannot respond to that, because it is true, and he takes advantage of her silence. “And, you’ve been dancing with me.”

“Against my will.”

“Not a first.”

“Regardless. Let me go!”

She sees America out of the corner of her eye, shouldering his way through the crowd of people from the entrance of the club. Prussia is still too busy trying to be handsy to notice his approach. That's it.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Does Prussia even realize what he is doing at this point?

“That you're hot stuff?”

“No.” She smirks. “That you are a hairy-arsed gobshite with a girly face. And, I wouldn’t give you the time of day if you were the only man to give it to.”

“Hey, that was harsh.” His hand still lingers on her hips.

“England, are you alr--” Alfred calls out.

England's head hurt too much for this. “Do you really not get the message? Here, fuck head.”

She barely notices Alfred as she rears her arm back and they both punch Prussia at the same time. But, Alfred clutches her against him with one hand and, with the other, he punches. Hard. Her fist lands against ribs as the Prussian flails and stumbles to the floor in a heap, cradling his jaw.

“I was going to hit him well enough on my own. Thank you!”

America grimaces. “I'm really sorry, England.”

“England?” Canada whispers to her immediate right, studying England closely.

“England?!” Prussia mumbles in pain, his brow furrowed. “Ow. Fuck.”

Now they know.

She stares at Alfred, wide-eyed. Starts crying when his strong arms wrap around her and he holds her to his chest. “I'm sorry,” he whispers.

England didn’t want anyone to find out. The confrontation with Gilbert was unexpected, and disconcerting. England doesn’t like being a woman. Doesn’t like the vulnerable feeling of certain unfamiliar body parts being fondled without her consent. Mostly, she doesn’t know why she’s suddenly so angry, so scared. So emotional. Can’t think. All she wants to do is cry. Has she just set back the woman’s movement thirty years in less than a minute? What are these emotions?

Alfred’s arms shield her from everything, for now. Does Arthur even want this? But, Alfred is so big, and his arms feel secure. But, as Arthur, does he want that? He wiggles out of the embrace and runs, eyes full of tears that refuse to be held back. It is all so frustratingly hard to bear!

England cannot determine if he is upset more by Prussia's unwanted advances or the shock of them finding out he was turned into a woman.

She doesn’t remember how she finds herself in her foyer with Alfred combing his cool fingers through her hair and down to caress her cheek. She tilts her head to rub their cheeks together, and delights in the loud sound of Alfred’s nervous gulp.

Why did she do that?

Is it because England misses the feel of the stubble that once covered his own cheeks, on occasion, or Alfred’s mesmerizing smell? Apple pie, coffee, clay, oranges, pine trees. She likes the way his stubble rubs against her cheek. So calming.

But, she also feels like being miserable right now. England needs to figure out if Rose wants Alfred or if England wants America. Once again, she slips from his embrace. Sniffling, she wheedles free and starts up the stairs toward the bathroom, but Alfred is quick and catches her before she even reaches the staircase. He encases her in his arms and he leaves his palms firmly above her shoulder blades. Curious. His hands remain still; for what must be the first time that England can remember, America stands absolutely still. Curiouser and curiouser.

“I'm not going to let you go until you tell me if you're alright,” he whispers in her ear.

“Better now.” Alfred's behavior certainly puts things into perspective. America has been nothing but caring and fulling cognizant and understanding that England is still England, whatever the dressing of his skin. Everything that America has done he would do for England under any circumstances that need arose.

“Sorry, I lost track of time talking to Matthew. He guessed that you were England right away before we left.”

“Well, that's Canada for you. It figures.”

“I wish I had been there to dance with you instead of leaving you to Gilbert.”

Time to throw caution to the wind. He doesn't want Alfred to let go yet. England decides. Yes, he does want America.

“But my boyfriend came back,” she mutters, and hides her face against his shoulder, shamefully allowing his shirt to dry her tears. “So it's alright.”

“What? You mean…?” Even with the sudden spark of happiness brightening the blue in his eyes, he still looks a bit like a confused puppy.

“Yes.” She kisses his cheek. This feels right—the only thing that felt right during the whole day. “Will you be my boyfriend, America?”

“I’d like that.”

Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read few articles a long time ago about how some women not on birth control react to different kinds of masculine characteristics at certain parts of their cycle, and that is partially what inspired much of the plot of this particular chapter. I just wanted to explore that. I wish I still had the links, I would share them, but they are lost to another computer.
> 
> Floriography: thorn-less = love at first sight; pink = beauty; red = love; yellow = friendship; white = secrecy/silence; fifteen = I'm truly sorry. Floriography websites vary. I remember the significance, but not the website I used at the time. I think it was santamonicaflowers.com. It all amounts to America telling England that (s)he's really important regardless.
> 
> This chapter title comes from the song "Roar," by Katy Perry.


	5. All I Do Is Dream of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been unusually good with my update schedule. I really wanted to get this chapter up before Hurricane Irma comes through, though that's still a couple days. I'm going to stay with family. Sorry if I missed on the editing. Let me know of any problems and I'll get them fixed when I can.

It is still only late evening, so they change their clothes and settle as bookends on the couch watching some random old black and white film that England had left in the DVD player. America fidgets, not looking at anything, not even at his phone. Clearly, the movie isn’t enough to entertain him. It isn’t enough for England either.

“What're we gonna do about Prussia knowing?” Alfred asks.

“Oh, I don't think I'm actually very worried about that.”

“You aren't?”

“Matthew is a good lad. He'll put Gilbert in his place. I do want to thank you again, though.” She moves from her end of the couch, compelled to be close to Alfred—he is a magnet.

“I just did wh-what any decent guy would do!” Alfred twitches, moves to give her room, but the arm rest stops him; she takes up all the space he offers her, and regains the closeness she had established.

“Well, yes thank you for that as well. What I meant was...thank you for being here for me.”

“I wasn’t there for you at the club.” He looks away.

“No. Alfred.” She cups his cheeks with her hands, forcing him to face her, and smiles. “We made no arrangement for you to keep watch over me. I don’t blame you. It was my own fault.” They both scowl at that. “My own fault. I’m an old bugger, you know.” America laughs. “I know Prussia, and I should have known better than to trust him.”

“Especially with a pretty girl.”

England’s cheeks heat and she is sure they must be the same bright shade of red that America’s cheeks are now. “Hm…um…”

America bites at his perfectly shaped lips. The action is mesmerizing; he works at his bottom lip so hard it turns puffy and that must be painful. The movement of his lips deepens interest within her. And, still, he smells so good. She feels the overwhelming urge to take a cold shower.

Alfred has stopped biting his lip and she realizes that he is staring at her. His brilliant blue eyes sparkle; they are so deep…

“…re you okay?”

She blinks and leaps up from the couch in retreat. “Yes. Well, thank you. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry Alfred. I’m very tired. Be a dear and turn off the film or keep watching it if you wish. I’m going to bed early.”

“What?” His strong arms reach out for her, so wonderfully sculpted; she can see the lines of his muscles through the fabric of his shirt. She wants those arms around her again—almost moves closer—but she is just not sure. This is all so new.

She backs up a few steps as he leans toward her. Thankfully he stops—such a good man he is. “It’s been quite an eventful day.”

“Yeah, guess it has.”

“Good night Alfred.” She turns on her heels, before he can reply, and barely resists taking the stairs two at a time.

“Good night, England,” Alfred responds to her retreating back. He had sounded sad, she realizes halfway up the stairs.

 

~*~

 

What the hell was that downstairs?

This simply could not continue. He would have to get a handle on this.

He…“Oh, bugger.” Her... “Hmph.”

England turns on to her side, unable to sleep for thoughts of her idiocy. 

She glances at the clock. Midnight.

She would feel better after a good night’s sleep…if she could ever manage to get to sleep. 

She turns onto her stomach and cringes at the ache in her breasts as they press into the mattress. Just when she is almost getting used to them, they cause a different kind of agony. This can't be normal. Should she notify a doctor? How would she begin to explain her situation? Other similar thoughts float through her head as she drifts to sleep.

 

~*~

 

Everything is all a swirling blur of colors. Turning, twirling, around and around she whirls. Muddled, unrecognizable music assails her.

Her heart thumps.

Hands grab.

Burning, chilling fingers inch their way down her sides to her hips, to her thighs, toward the hem of a skirt she didn’t remember buying.

She shakes her head and her vision clears and the movements slow.

She is in hold in the middle of an abandoned dance floor so large she cannot see the edges.

Wandering fingers startle her attention back to her phantom partner, and the lecherous glint in his eyes. His laughter hisses in her ears.

His mouth moves as if to speak, but it is all a jumble of incomprehensible words.

His hands hike up the hem of her skirt, higher and higher.

Her breath comes in pants.

She tries to continue the dance, hasten the steps, but her partner is no longer interested in that kind of dancing, and stills their movements. The music just a faint hum of sound captures her attention as he dips her down, lowering her to the floor. Lower. Lower.

The music. The music! What song is playing?

She squints her eyes closed and the cacophony of sound forms itself into a melody. 

 

~*~

 

As she had squinted in her dream, England's eyes open wide as she jolts into consciousness, shivering and startled and panting. It's so cold. The faint, muffled sound of brass instruments floats up from the ground floor. She sits up in bed.

It is one thirty in the morning, and Alfred is being Alfred. Completely balmy.

There is no telling what he is doing, and England cannot imagine what video game he could have brought with him that plays jazz music.

England wanders downstairs to investigate, pulling on a house coat to ward off her chill. She couldn't remember the house being so chilly when she drifted off to sleep.

She could never have prepared herself for the sight of Alfred singing Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” into a brass candlestick, swaying his hips. He would look suave, but for his sweatshirt and baggy pajama pants. 

He has a nice tenor voice. The way he moves, she is captivated.

Suddenly, he turns in her direction. She is caught.

He laughs for both of them, bright and melodic, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck. “Well at least you didn’t laugh?”

She is still shaken from her dream and hugs her body close, stunned 

“Are you okay, England?”

“What? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You didn't insult me for one and-” He runs toward her. “You’re shaking!”

She backs away, shivering. Why is it so bloody cold?

“Hey, stop doing that.” He stops her with a gentle hand on her arm.

“Doing what?”

“Running away from me.”

“I’m not running away from you. Why would I do that? You're daft.”

“I don’t know. But...You’re shivering?”

“I’m just a little cold.”

“Th-then just talk to me. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“It—” The words wouldn't form.

“And don’t say it’s nothing. Something's always on your mind.”

The words she wants to say won’t form on her tongue, but she knows what she wants. Something she has wanted for years. This curse just seems to have strengthened the desire.

“Whatever it is. It's okay.” He smooths her hair.

“Hold me,” she whispers and presses against Alfred, tucking her nose in the crook of his neck, head resting on his shoulder. Maybe she doesn’t have to tell him after all.

“What?” Slowly, he seemed to recoil away from her. The hypocrite. 

“Please?” Her voice comes out dull and monotone; she wants to cast away the flood of emotions.

He shakes his head and almost pulls away. “I don’t know, England.”

“Please, Alfred,” she breathes.

“Well, I never did get a real dance with you.”

“A dance? It’s the middle of the night.” It wasn’t quite what she had in mind.

“And it’s just the two of us. Come on.”

She sighs. “Of course, I’ll dance with you.” He isn’t Gilbert or the phantom in her dream. Alfred is hyper and outgoing, but skittish and kindhearted.

They dance, and he has some very nice moves of his own, though not polished. But, the song on Alfred's iPad changes from the snappy mambo, “Sway,” to “At Last.” They pause, but Alfred pulls her closer into his arms and rubs her back.

“Not rock or country or rap?” she whispers. “I didn’t think you listened to this music anymore.”

“Of course I do. It’s an American invention. Jazz is all mine. And…and it’s kinda soothing.”

They settle into easy movements and the music flows from one song into another, the melodies blending together.

“Is this okay?” His hand rests at the small of her back.

“Yes.” She smiles into his shoulder.

“Good.” He sniffs at her hair just behind her ear; it tickles. “You smell nice.”

“You do too.” It’s intoxicating, his smell.

“I do?”

“Yes.”

“Your hair is soft. And, I like your smile.” Though emboldened he still sounds nervous.

“You talk too much Alfred.” She pulls her head from his shoulder and stares up into his brilliant eyes. She gets lost there. So close are they, she can feel his body heat making her feel warmer and tingly all over. She wishes he would never let go.

“Geez, I’m sorry.” He moves to pull away.

No! He can’t! She tightens where her arms had been resting on his shoulders. The movement brings his momentum toward her and, for some reason, she tilts her head up.

Their lips connect in a wonderful accident.

England’s mind swims with the sensation of kissing Alfred, so she kisses him again. And again and again. Her mind zeroes. The world compresses down to Alfred. Just Alfred. And his lips on her lips and his hands on her back and his scent filling her nose. Oh, that intoxicating smell, had it intensified? She might as well be plastered on Alfred.

She clutches at his shirt, his shoulders; that bloody sweatshirt is in the way. Her fingers slip under the collar and scratch at the heated skin of his neck.

There is a tug at her waist; Alfred has untied her housecoat and grips her hips tentatively, but does nothing else. She shrugs off the coat and positions his hands at the buttons of her pajama top. She bumps against something solid and pauses. When had he backed her against the banister? Or had she done that?

She presses against him, inches her fingers underneath the hem of his shirt, feels the shiver of his skin when her cold fingers brush the hard muscles of his stomach. Slowly, she pushes it up, staring into his eyes—they are wide pools of cloudless sky. She steps up on the first stair, and, for the first time in more than two hundred years, England is taller than America; the thought makes her grin, and it probably looks carnal. She pulls him forward and nips kisses on his neck at a pulse point. His smell tastes so good. So addictive.

“Alfie,” she hums, smiling against his jaw.

“Damn it.” His breath comes in shallow gulps, but still, he wraps his arms around her. “Well, if that’s what you want then?” 

She nods and stops thinking, instead wrapping her legs around his waist. Alfred waifs her upstairs to her bedroom.

 

~*~

America doesn’t bother with the lights, easily finding the bed by the moonlight shining in the bay windows. He pauses, hovering above England.

He stares down at her, his arms still around her waist, her legs still wrapped around his hips. Very distracting. What the hell is going on? Never to anyone would he admit being scared, but he is terrified.

But, this is still England.

America leans back, England's legs tug at his hips, but slip down when he sits on his shins. He scowls, lost, speechless, though this has been a frequent occurrence around her since the curse. What is he supposed to do? Who flipped this switch?

“You’re so sweet, you know that? Sweet and precious. Yes.” She is practically humming.

He swallows hard. Did she just call him precious? She smiles, her expression is fond and soft.

“Admirable and kind and courteous…”

Hold that merry-go-round! Alfred stared, incredulous. “Wait…me? You never! I don’t…”

She shakes her head to silence him. “Incredibly handsome and strong.” She pulls on his shoulders and in his bewilderment he lowers himself over her again. “So strong and brave.” Her lips twist into something both demure and devilish. “My hero.”

Even in her weird hazy, whateverness, she knows his kryptonite. “My hero,” she repeats, breathy and deep and sonorous.

She kisses him hard on the mouth. She tastes like tea, even though she has brushed her teeth since her last cup. Tea sticks to England after so many years of drinking it, always there, no matter what. He can always smell it. He realizes that this is, by far, the best way to take tea.

England’s skin still bears the familiar crisscross patchwork of scars; the curse did not take away that feature; where they are absent her skin is smooth and creamy.

It's mental ice water more than anything. Is England every bit a woman, except perhaps in some nebulous pocket of another universe that’s pushed to the back of his brain? Alfred decides Arthur is still Arthur somewhere in his/her head. He always tended to be rather randy old man, and Rosalind might be willing at the moment, but does the same apply to Arthur? Is this some kind of body-swapping or pod person scenario? Had the curse taken over England's brain like an alien?

America's thoughts whirlwind though his brain and it almost misfires as England slowly slips free the last button of her pajama shirt. A black hole opens in his stomach.

He can’t do this!

He avoids glancing down into her eyes or anywhere other than the wall or the bed frame. Up, up, up with the eyes, Alfred! What can he do? “Um…okay,” he stalls. “Uh…I, um gotta pee first! Okay, Rosa?”

He can't do this!

“What?!” she groans.

He doesn’t want to disappoint her, but those are his own hormones talking and his desires responding to her advances created by the curse. England is gorgeous, after all, hair pooling around her head, ethereal, illuminated by the moonlight. “Aw, hurry. Y'have horrible timing, lad,” she mutters as he extricates himself from her long, slender limbs, being careful of one of her knees dangerously close to Florida.

He does hurry. He grabs the bedding in a handful and drapes it over her, so she isn’t cold and scampers to the bathroom, shivering and thrumming. He has a teenager's body, he can't help it!

When he returns to the bed, England is asleep.

It’s better this way. Really.

He stumbles his way back down to retrieve his shirt, because it really is cold, and back to England's room. It is just as well that he did. England has bunched the bedding up to her chest in a fist. Since hers is the warmest room upstairs, he slowly lowers himself down to the bed, and pulls over a corner of the sheet but it won't budge. He grabs the quilt at the end of the bed to cover up with that instead, scoots to the middle, and spoons up behind her. She doesn’t have much on now and can use all the warmth he can give her. She sighs and leans back into the embrace.

He can live with this.

 

~*~

 

Author Notes:

Chapter 5's song – All I Do Is Dream of You, sung by Michael Buble.

This whole chapter was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend about being really sensitive to smell just before our period. Like really sensitive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole chapter was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend about being really sensitive to smell just before our period. Like really sensitive.
> 
> Chapter 5's title comes from "All I Do Is Dream of You", sung by Michael Buble.


	6. How Did You Pick Me Up Again?

Chapter 6 – How Did You Pick Me Up Again?

England wakes with the light streaming yellow and bright through the curtains. Bright. Mid-morning. It’s cold, but her back is comfortably warm. Slowly, she peaks under the covers and stares down at creamy breasts. Her breath catches in her throat. There is a murmuring breath in her ear, almost words. Suddenly, an arm closes around her waist from above the bedding.

She turns her head.

Alfred!

His glasses are off. He has secured her to the bed with his very muscular arm.

The last thing England wants is to wake him, but she doesn’t want to stay like this.

He stirs, his grip loosens, arms shift upward toward…toward … She bolts upright before she can think better of the action and the blanket pools at her waist.

“Oh,” Alfred yawns. “Finally awake. I was worried when I woke up earlier that you.” His gaze remains on the pillow next to his head.

“Turn around, you berk!”

In his shock, Alfred looks up at her.“Huh?” 

“Don’t look!” She wrestles for the sheets to cover herself. England doesn't want this body, certainly doesn't want to have it on display.

“I wasn’t looking!” Alfred snaps back, his eyes falling to the bed once again.

“Turn around! Just turn!”

“It’s not anything you weren’t itching to show me last night,” he grumbles, but turns on his back to stare at the ceiling.

“I…we…oh my god.” England’s face burns: eyes, cheeks, ears. “Oh my god!”

“Wait, England. Stop.”

“We…we…” She shimmies away from him, keeping the bedding tucked to her chin. Her stomach clenches and a choked, gravelly growl scratches her throat. “I trusted you! How could you? How could you let-”

“England, just shut up a minute would you?! And, let…?”

“No, you shut up, Alfred!” Her voice suddenly clears. “How could you take advantage of me when I'm like this and--”

“Stop! You're not making any sense.” America places a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t take advantage of you. Just think a minute.” England bites down. “Ow! Hey now that’s—Ow!” He pulls his hand back, rubbing at skin now bearing the indentures of her teeth. “That's not nice. I was trying to explain,” he whines.

“I trusted you!”

“I know! Geez. I knew this would happen.” Alfred swings himself around and faces the other direction entirely. Finally. She watches him; he stretches and bends this way and that. She can’t figure out what he’s doing. His movements seem so purposeful, and the muscles of his back are mesmerizing and distract her from guessing what he’s up to. “Here,” he tosses a shirt over his shoulder and it lands in her lap.

Without thinking, she pulls it on. It smells of citrus fruit and piney mountain air. America. Her mind pauses. She shifts in the bed. Guilt builds. “You mean we didn’t?”

“No.” His answer is flat, almost lacks emotion altogether. “Even though you practically begged me.” He is fighting something internally. Her guilt squeezes tighter.

“I did not!”

“Yeah, ya did. You kinda threw yourself at me.”

"I wouldn’t!”

“So says the erotic ambassador.”

“Now you see here!”

“No. Now, I’m hungry. I'll make breakfast if you wanna join me,” he rises from the bed and walks away.

“Wait, Alfred.”

He stops, but does look back. “Yeah?”

“I’m…I’m…” Her mind stops racing as she remembers what happened last night, the memory sparked by a twitch of his shoulders. “Oh.”

How could she have thought that of Alfred. That he would take advantage of her was ludicrous. He had great bravado and a tendency to boast, but he was rather timid when it came to intimacy except for those whom he knew well and was comfortable. Always had been.

He waits, heaving an impatient sigh when she fails to answer his unspoken question. “Like I said, join me in the kitchen if you wanna eat. Geez.”

How could he just leave like that! “Alfred! Please.” Her voice wavers. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Come on, then.” He gestures toward the door.

She smiles, her mood lifted; it was so sudden. Amazing. How can someone’s mood change just like that?

 

~*~

 

“You could have asked me!” England blinks over at the heated plate filled with bacon, scrambled eggs, and pancakes.

“Asked you what?”

“What I wanted for breakfast, of course.”

“But I made most of it it before you woke up!”

“Exactly! You didn’t wake me up or wait to ask me what I would have wanted.”

“But I was doing something special for you!”

“It’s too much.”

“Oh, that’s rich! So says the King of the full Monty! Which you tried to give me last night, by the way.”

“That was rude and uncalled for, Alfred!”

“And the truth.”

England blinks again, her eyes burning. Hot tears fall before she can think to stop them. What in the hell is going on with her emotions? Why was she acting like this? There was no reason. They always commuicated this way. They had indulged in playful bickering since the very beginnings of their long history.

“Aw! Don’t cry!” America sulks, setting their plates on the table. He reaches over and grabs something from the counter. He sets a steaming cup of tea in front of her.

It’s delicious. That only makes her cry harder.

“Geez, don’t do that!” Alfred wipes at her tears with his thumb.

“I’m really sorry, Alfred. I don’t mean to snap at you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” England sniffles, hugging America around his middle, letting her tears soak into his shirt. “You’re really quite sweet and thoughtful.”

“Shhh. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You know I don’t like it when people cry,” he whispers.

England wishes she could make the tears stop, but doesn’t even know what’s wrong in the first place. So, they keep falling. Alfred, keeps rubbing her back. She can imagine for the way that his voice waivers that fights tears of his own, but he wouldn't cry. He really does like to see anyone crying.

 

~*~

 

Try as she might, England cannot piece together all of the details from previous night. They float around in the pea-soupiness of her mind with America the big hunk of meat in the memory pot. All of it bubbling and roiling around.

Food. Why is it that she continues to think of food? She had that big breakfast not long ago. She looks away from the computer screen and glances at the clock. It is noon, but she only got out of bed at half past nine! Depressed and groggy from getting off schedule England struggles to get some more work done. Easier said than done, because she cannot seem to be able to concentrate on even the smallest of tasks, forgetting what she is doing in the middle a project. She lets out a grunt in her frustration. This is pointless, why bother?!

What was she doing?

She gets up from her desk and thinks a moment, paces the floor. It feels as though she’s falling apart at the seams. There is only one more day until the meeting. Get it together!

“England?” America looks up from his own work. “What are you doing?”

“Oh hush, Alfred!” she snaps.

“Huh?” He stares at her with wide eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Just leave me alone.”

“Something’s the matter. You’re not usually much of a pacer when you think.”

“Well, I’m pacing now, so, you’ll just have to deal with it.”

“Geez, sorry! Don’t bite my head off!” He throws his hands into the air in a gesture of surrender and sulks.

England stops, blinks at him. What was that? Why did she snap at Alfred? Nothing feels right, like she’s being held together by old, watery glue. Her heart thump-thumps a tap dance in her chest and her brain feels too big for her skull.

She clutches her head, fingers clinched deep into her hair, massaging at her scalp. What the hell is going on? She bites her lip and gives America an apologetic smile, but does not tarry in the room, embarrassed by her outburst. “I need tea and something to eat.”

Alfred makes a questioning noise as she flees the study, but he does not follow after her. “It hasn’t been that long since breakfast!”

She knows this, but still cannot explain her sudden hunger.

 

~*~

 

England has to go to the bathroom badly. The only problem is the disturbing fact that she went only an hour ago, and normally has no such bladder troubles. She really needs to finish her report for the meeting. Her body seems to conspire against her. Maybe it’s just nerves? England has never been this nervous before; it's irrational. Her presentation is quite important, a fiscal report for the World Meeting concerning the United Kingdom. She cannot focus on the numbers for the tickle in her abdomen and the twinge of pain in her back. She hasn’t done anything to injure it— never has to do any heavy lifting when Alfred is around.

With a heavy sigh, she saves her spreadsheet file in case something should happen to it in the short time she is away using the toilet. She heads to the door, but halfway there, she stops.

Did she really save it or did she just think that she did?

England turns back to make sure; she saves the document again just in case.

 

~*~

 

“Alfred!” England groans. Her concentration has been utterly destroyed by the abhorrent smell of coffee. Normally, she doesn’t mind the smell of his coffee and loves the faint scent of it that lingers on him, even though she isn’t fond of drinking it herself. The smell seems to have coated her notrils and crept to reside in her sinuses and thoat so strongly she can taste it. This time, she cannot seem to be able to indulge America. “Please take that refuse out of my study and drink it somewhere away from my nose.”

“But, I’m all the way across the room!” Of course, he sounds crestfallen. 

The guilt kneeds in her stomach. But, that smell! She cannot stand it.

“Just take it out.”

“Aw, come on, England! You don’t usually mind.”

“Take it out!”

“I’ll take it out." He gets up, marking a spot in his notes. "I’ll take it out. Geez.” 

“Don’t get an attitude with me, lad.”

“I’m not!” He pauses at the door. “I’m leaving like you asked me too.”

“Yes, but you’ve got a tone.”

“A tone? Are you serious?”

“As the Bubonic Plague.”

His eyes grow wider, and it would be comical if she couldn’t still smell the coffee and if she weren’t still angry with him for getting snide.

He stares at her a long moment. Whatever liveliness was left in him vanishes from his face. “Whatever, England. I’m going with my coffee. I won’t come back until I’ve finished. I don’t know what has you so uptight, but let me know when you work yourself out of it.” Back rigid, he leaves.

She blinks.

What?

What just happened?

She wishes she had not chased him away, because now she is lonely. Her eyes grow foggy and hot.

She wishes he would come back, but she couldn’t go ask him even if she wanted to.

England sits back at her desk and stares blankly at her computer screen. The words are incomprehensible. Her mind is blank. She can only think of how miserable she feels.

 

~*~

 

England's concentration continus to degrade, worrying about her report that just won’t come together for the constant scattering of her thoughts, the waves of dizziness, the shake in her hands, the swing of her moods. Her see-saw of frustration keeps her undecided as to whether she would rather cling to Alfred or throw him against the closest wall and punch him in the gut or kiss him senseless. She probably couldn’t perform any such feat of physical exertion even if she wanted with the way her back aches.

All she wants to do is cry. And cry and cry and cry. She bites her lip and attempts to push the cloud from her mind.

She shifts in her chair. The leather does not conform to her back as it once did, and, even if it did, her back would still hurt.

“England! Dinner!” Alfred calls from the kitchen. From the scent of the air, it does not contain beef and for that England finds that she cannot be more thankful.

 

~*~

 

“England, why are you just staring at your closet?” America asks quietly from somewhere behind her.

“Clothing.” She looks back. He is perched on the edge of her bed. “So, I don’t have to try to figure it out tomorrow.”

“That’s logical, I guess. But you don’t usually have a problem with that, do you?”

“Never know what might happen tomorrow.”

“Right,” he scratches the back of his neck and does not look convinced. “How long are you gonna hold that dress, though?”

England begins to wonder if anything will ever make sense again. She sighs, but it comes to an unexpected stop by arms wrapping around her waist.

“Wear what you’ll feel comfortable in."

“Not the dress?” She looks down at the green thing in her hand.

“No, probably not the dress,” Alfred laughs softly, and takes the dress from her hand.

“I thought you said a little while ago that you’d do anything to see me in a dress?”

“I was kidding. But I already got to anyway.”

“No you weren’t. You know, if you want to see me in it again, you’ll probably have to make me.” She gets an idea and turns in his arms; it is awkward, moving him by force of will when she is eye level with his throat, but she keeps walking, physically backing him toward the bed.

“Is that a challenge, babe?” He wraps his arms closer around her.

“What do you think? And, don’t call me babe, got it?” She smirks. When he tumbles down, they both go with giggles, the dress falling forgotten to the floor.

 

~*~

 

_Hands all over, tingling, feel like fireworks._

_Musk kisses her nose, smelling like a spring morning._

_She licks peanut salty, caramel apple sweet skin._

_Intonations of her name hug her ears in rapture._

_Below her Alfred, mesmerizing Alfred, touches her, tastes her._

_Alfred everywhere._

_Alfred, Alfred, Alfred._

 

~*~

 

England wakes with a start. What the hell was with her dreams?

The time? She searches for the time.

Just after midnight. She is as alert as though it is late-morning.

She lays back down, her back pressing against America. His hands clench onto the fabric of her shirt.

Hot. It is so hot. 

But it is in the middle of winter.

She pants and wiggles out of Alfred’s grasp. 

So hot.

The sheets are cooler on the far side of the bed, so she rolls toward the draft.

Much better.

She sighs, but stares at the window curtains for ages before sleep is able to catch her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate that PMS part of the month when I'm cranky and moody and can't figure out which way is up. I was just wondering how a guy would handle that when they don't have any idea what is going on. It makes me (semi)thankful that I do know what's going on and can adjust accordingly, and not think that I'm going totally nuts. England might have a better time of things if there was another girl around to explain it to him.


	7. I Didn't Know I Was Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler, it finally happens. That really shouldn't be a spoiler, because that was supposed to be the whole point of this fic and prompt that I filled. I have no excuse why it took me until the 7th of 10 chapters to finally get to the point.

Chapter 7 – I Didn't Know I Was Lost

 

“-land” Words buzz in her ears. “England! Come on!”

“Mmph grnphr,” she tries to respond.

“England, you gotta get up.” A firm hand rests on her shoulder.

She burrows farther into the bedding and hides her face between two pillows.

“Come on, England!” America huffs, even half-asleep as she is, he sounds tense and strained. “Ugh! You need to get up.”

“Wha?” She pats around the bed to get her limbs moving and force herself up and out of bed. Her back is so sore. Why? “Immup.”

“Come on, sleeping beauty. However much this weirds me out to say to you, we need to get moving, so we can get to the meeting on time.”

“I’m getting up. I’m getting up,” England groans when America offers a hand or an arm or something to help extricate her from the nice warm, cozy bed, and hugs her to his warmth instead.

“Yeah, and that’s what I’m supposed to say,” he sighs. “I already have breakfast made. Get up and get it. Come on.”

“You didn’t ask me again?” she wakes now, and glares at him.

“Oh, sure. Wake up and get mad at me.” He releases her and backs away from the bed. “If you don’t want it, then give it to me and I’ll eat it and make you something else. It’s fine. Geez. Just come on already.”

He mumbles on about her odd behavior as he shuffles his way downstairs and back to the kitchen, hyperactive and anxious. It makes her feel anxious and listless. 

 

~*~

 

“But I’m not hungry!” Uneasy about her strange hunger at noon yesterday, she had eaten only a little for lunch and dinner; America remembers this.

“You need to eat.”

“I don’t feel like anything.”

“It’s not healthy to skip breakfast. You tell me that all the time. Just, I don’t know, like, eat some fruit or toast or something.”

“But…but…oh, just make me whatever you want me to have. Something light.”

“Which do you want? What I’m having or something light?” he asks like it is the most logical question, which, when she things about it, knowing America, it is.

“Something light.”

“Fruit and toast and oatmeal it is then.”

She sighs.

 

~*~

 

England is just so tired, it is hard to think, let alone work her way around getting ready as a woman. 

 

“Alfred, I think this is a mistake,” she attempts to avoid the mirror as she tries to tame the long, feathery mane that is her hair, but cannot. The mirror is a necessary evil to do the impossible, and settles for a semi-messy bun with pins haphazardly in it. There. England almost looks like himself with all that hair pulled hair back from her face, especially with the little bits that spike out from the mass in all directions. The softer curve of her cheeks is just a little off-putting, though. She keeps her eyes away from the curves below shoulder level.

“You don’t look bad,” America says as his fingers linger over her waist and hips—probably an unconscious motion. Then he wings his arms around to her back.

She hums, the feeling is a relief she could become used to, fingers rub circles along her lower back. “But not good. You haven’t said I looked good.”

“Of course you don’t look good,” he whispers to the crown of her head.

“Alfred!?” she exclaims and pulls away.

He laughs. “You look nice. Pretty. Very…polished.” He had to search for that word; he means it.

“Thank you, Alfred. But, like this,” she motions down at her body. “I really don’t think I can manage the meeting. I can’t.”

“You’re England. You can do anything.” I shouldn't have to tell you this was playing about his eyes, like he wished to add it to the end of his statement.

Oh, if those words were true. And, normally, England would not argue, having been through some horrible times only to spring back. “I can’t do this!”

“It’s only a G8 meeting. You’ll be fine. You finished your presentation, right?”

“Only just,” she huffs. It’s not polished at all—only barely complete.

“Which means it’s stellar and probably better than mine.”

“I can’t get my hair right. It will all droop down in a second.” Just as she said it, her hair did exactly as predicted, but America was not to be thwarted by hair. It takes a few minutes, but he bundles it up and pins it in place. It feels secure. “How did you do that?” She marvels t the bun on the mirror, very similar to the one she had fixed there moments ago, but tidier and more secure.

“Used to play with Mattie’s hair all the time.”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“What? I go through phases sometimes? We all do, right? Hollywood?”

“Keep convincing yourself of that, love.”

“Yeah, whatever. Not gonna touch your punk phase.You ready now?” 

“Do you really think this suit is adequate?” It had been a thrill to find a decent suit with slacks designed for a female figure.

“You look amazing.” He hugs her close. “Now, we really need to go.”

Glancing back in the mirror one last time, all things considered the meeting could easily crash and burn, and shatter her. She must admit she does look attractive. Easy on her own eyes. She folds her arms around her stomach to easy the niggling feeling roiling and twisting at her insides. Why does she feel unable to take a proper breath, drowning in air, waiting for disaster to strike? “Let’s just sit out this time.”

“The both of us? Oh yeah, that would go down like a lead zeppelin. We haven’t been the G6 in decades and both of us were there even back then, babe. You've been itching to get to a meeting since I got here.”

“I know. I know.”

“I also know that you’d hate yourself more later if we played hooky.”

She sighs. “Oh, you’re right.”

“I know I am!” He kisses her cheek.

She nudges him away, the sappy bugger. “Let’s get going then.” As they gathered their things and made their way out the door, England's horrible sinking feeling in her lower abdomen increases and wonders if that is like a bad feeling in your gut that is usually best not to ignore.

 

~*~

 

The drive to the conference centre is uneventful. The trip up the elevator is nauseating. The walk down the hallway is uncomfortable. The pit seeems to grow with each step.

England clutches her briefcase in her hand, knuckles turning white. She cannot pinpoint the growing tetchiness in her lower abdomen. And, despite her suit coat and trousers and her heavy winter coat, she is still cold. So, so cold. She clenches her teeth, whimper escaping her throat before she can stifle it.

“Hey, England,” America grasps her wrist. “Let me take that for you.”

“No, it’s alright.” She tugs her arm back.

“But, you—” 

“It’s just a briefcase, Alfred,” she sucks in a shallow breath and hastens a few steps ahead, but his grip remains firm around her hand. “I can handle it.”

“It’s really no problem.”

“Let go, Alfred!” She tugs her hand free. Her equilibrium jumps and her ears ring for a moment as spots fill her vision. Only barely did she manage not to stumble. “I don’t need your help.”

Strong arms steady her and keep her on her feet. Really, she is grateful for America being there, but it is the principle of the matter. England can get by without help. He is only female—temporarily—not an invalid who constantly needs to be guided and coddled. She brushes his arms away.

“You don’t have to ask, you know. Anytime.” She knows that he means regardless of what has happened and the fact that you're currently a woman, but that is superfluous.

“I know that. Back off!” she growls, but is instantly regretful at the twitch of hurt in America’s eyes.

“What’s with you? What’s the matter, England?”

“You assert yourself into the role of hero entirely too often. You need to learn when your help is not needed. I can take care of myself, I tell you.”

That was a very low blow she struck at his heartstrings, and it probably hurt him deeply. America only ever wants to be helpful, though he is frequently overeager. He takes a few shocked steps backward. “You’re shaking and all pale, but whatever.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Do what you want,” he whispers, letting her walk on unimpeded and unbothered.

She huffs and does just that. “Thank you.” She means her apology to be more genuine than it sounds, but they enter the conference room, and she doesn’t wish to rehash anything that has transpired in the presence of any other nation. Wearing a glare to avoid answering questions by an implied threat of unspeakable violence, she follows America into the meeting room. Her glare does not get much a chance to go into effect, America obstructs everyone's view of her, and continues this broad shouldered block all the way to their seats.

"Sorry we're late. I kinda slept in a bit this morning." He laughs.

She just sits in her seat and hides her head in her hands. 

After the altercation in the hallway, England feels even worse, now it feels as though her skin doesn't even fit right. She's convinced it isn't emotional—can't pin down the cause. Although, she is thankful she still looks enough like himself with long hair pulled back and reading glasses perched on her nose, she is more thankful that the other nations don't notice the difference at a glance. Sometimes America's bombacity comes in handy.

She writhes in agony through the meeting. Between Germany’s opening monologue (mostly warnings for conduct) and France’s speech (filled with unveiled innuendo), she struggles to keep from twisting herself into unnatural angles in her seat in the quest to rid herself of growing pain, finally settling with folding herself forward, arms clenched around her stomach. England remains puzzled; the spasmming pains originate in the wrong locations for stomach discomfort. Familiar enough with female anatomy to know what to do to give pleasure, England had never asked for further elucidation on the finer points of their particular functionality. Maybe it is the curse? Northern Ireland’s magic must have malfunctioned. Yes, that must be it. She should speak with the girl as soon as possible.

“…ngland…England." Someone is hissing at her.

She blinks, her concentration thrown, her thoughts lost, and jolts to attention. That hurt. “Huh?” Oh, how she wishes she hadn’t started like that. “What is it?”

America’s brow furrows, eyes shadowed with apprehension. “England, are you alright?” he whispers. “It’s…it’s your turn.” 

That is a pity; she has the overwhelming urge to dash off to the toilet. This is all very untoward and alarming. England rarely suffers anxiety from public speaking—no fidgeting, no uncontrollable bladder problems, nothing—these current plights are all new.

She rises from her seat slowly to prevent her abdominal muscles from clenching and aching. It is a small achievement that she keeps the pain from increasing. A hand stops her and she pauses—it’s better than jumping and tightening her muscles again—notes are pressed into her hand. She looks over her shoulder; Alfred is half-standing. She recognizes the alertness in his eyes and muscles, and knows he is ready for anything, and half scoffs despite the pain. His concern is appreciated, but the silly boy should realize such vigilance is not necessary.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

He nods and his smile is reassuring as she makes her way to the front of the table.

“Good morning, everyone,” she sighs.

"Oh! Look! Germany! A pretty lady!" Italy scurries in her direction.

Germany intercepts him, before he can make it to the head of the table. "Yes, Italy. It appears to be England," he says. "Please proceed when you are ready. England."

Thankfully there is at least one other nation who wishes to keep the meeting all business.

"England?" Italy coos. "Pretty England!" Germany again stops him from charging at her.

Someone at the far end of the table mutters the dreaded question: “England, what has happened to you?” Japan's furrowed brow speaks the meaining between his words: “why has this happened to you?”

Muttering and tittering across the table, prove their low collective maturity level. Juvenile.

“As you can see, my form has been...altered. It is a result of a slight magical mishap.”

“What kind of magic have you been dabbling in this time?” France jibes, pushing up from his seat and sauntering toward her.

“Not my own magic, frog. Anyway, it’s not worth talking about as I am sure it will work itself out soon.” Only if it would. "If we could continue?"

“Gilbert said you had changed into a woman,” France seizes her hand and kisses it. "But I thought he meant something entirely different. Honhonhon."

Canada was quick to quiet him, jabbing an elbow into his stomach.

Frances wheezes. "I wish I had come over to see for myself." 

"No you really don't." Canada tries to drag him back to his seat. "Come on, Francis. Just stop. No one needs this right now." Canada pulls on France's arm, but he shrugs it off. "Certainly not England."

Germany huffs. "Exactly. If we could get back to the meeting."

"You can't be all business all the time, Germany." Japan smiles at her.

"I am not business all the time, but this is not the time for England to flaunt her sex change."

"My sex change?!" England blanches. "You make it sound as though it was a choice!"

Japan appears genuinely surprised. "It wasn't?" 

"Why would it be?"

"You know guys, you should back off. If only for your own well being," Canada mutters a piece of wisdom that England wishes they would take, and that is probably why Prussia did not show his face to their meeting as he usually did. The former nation knows that England would more than willingly take potshots at all off them, and if she doesn't, America would take advantage of her lack of action and overreact for her.

"No it wasn't a choice!" America slams his hands on the conference table, and grunts out a warning. "England is still a dude, guys." 

This confrontation makes England wish to sit down or curl up in a bed somewhere and wake up in a year or so. She plops down on the stool at the front of the room and rubs a her temples.

"You look positively delectable. I think someone should really find out." Frances extricates himself from Canada's grasp and snakes a hand around her waist, letting it wander down the small of her back, leaning ever closer, being creepy and froggy and nauseating.

“Oh, no you don't!” she holds her breath and leans away carefully intercepts his sneaky hand, bending his fingers back to his wrist. “Not before. Not now. Not ever.” Bending, bending, bending his arm.

“Ow! Ow, ow ow! Let me go! Let me go!" France writhes and twists his hand from her grasp, petting it gingerly.

"I will hurt you." But, hurting him hurts her so much. She is glad when America takes him off her hands and forcibly returns France to his seat, hissing quiet and stern warnings.

"Sorry if you we do not believe you, England." She twists around to see Russia staring down at her, very close. "But, you have a history of ineffective magic. This time is different, how?"

"Because I didn't do this. That is all there is to it."

"Well, no matter." Russia smiles wider and closes the gap between them.

Russia towers over her more than usual, so she tries not shrink in on herself. Oh god the pain!

"I don't know." Canada intercepts, holding Russia at bay, still staring at her with his head cocked to one side, very much like a cat. "I think he looks rather plain as a woman. Nothing special," he says.

"Whoa, dude!" America pops between the three of them, quick to her defense. "Clearly you don't know what you're talking about." America fumes, and the others continue on, their voices blending together in debate. Arguing about her.

It's all so bizarre and overwhelming: the advances, the compliments, the mocking. England would have, at one point, agreed with Russia's sentiment, but now finds that she doesn't react well to anything but America's fussy, thoughtful little comments, is frustrated at herself that she's obliged, and become used to them. It takes the combined efforts of Germany and Canada ten minutes to restore order to the meeting, even then the restlessness continued. She couldn't imagine the sensation that would have been created had this been a world summit or UN council meeting.

It feels like she is skewered through her lower abdominal muscles; she really needs to sit back down, but hadn't even started her presentation before the ruckus broke out.

“If everyone would kindly allow, I shall proceed.” She takes a deep breath and uses the opportunity to look down at her notes. Her hands shake, her muscles quiver; they just keep twitching! “I..I..” England’s breath comes in pants and she looks down to reassure herself that something isn’t actually squeezing or stabbing her around her lower abdominal muscles. Only her own arms. “When we look at the…at the…” Oh god, she has to go to the bathroom. If only she can get through her speech, maybe she can call for a break; she knows America will second the motion, always eager for any excuse to get out of a meeting.

“Well, after all this, it seems that I, ahem…picked up the wrong set of notes. I beg your pardon.”

To a spattering of laughter and derisive comments, she trudges back to her seat and freezes her mid-stride. She strays a glance down at the grey fabric of her seat and sees a smear of dark scarlet, large enough to recognize it for what it is. Blood. A gulp of air lodges itself in her throat and her mouth gets coppery and liquidy.

“England?” America. Always America, tears her from the sight, but not from the shock.

Her muscles clench once again, but she can’t stay. Not any longer. She glances down at the spot again. People don't just bleed for no reason.

“England!?” America hisses again.

America must have followed her line of vision to the spot. “I have to go.” And, off she runs. Another set of footsteps accompany her. “England!” America calls out to her.

The closest toilet in that section of the convention center is the men’s room, so England dashes inside, knowing anyone who would potentially use it is back in the meeting room, and ducks into a stall. She folds in on herself on the toilet seat. It isn’t a lot of blood that soils her clothing, actually it is very little, but any blood is too much. And it’s there and staring at her. Thankfully, she wore black trousers. A vague niggle in the back of her brain suggests that there might be an (reasonable) explanation.

“What the hell is going on, England?” America’s voice is quietly tense. “Please, tell me. Oh god. Why was there…”

“Blood.” Her voice breaks. Damn him for making her say it. “I’m bleeding.”

“Y-yeah, I saw that. Wh-why? Wait. Should… I should leave. I’ll leave.”

“No!” She doesn't wish to be alone. He can stay on the other side of the door. That’s fine. What to do? What to do? Time to make a phone call.

“What do you want me to do?” He sounds as panicked as she feels.

“Get your phone. Call North.”

“Call Kitty?” She could hear the swish of fabric indicative that he was doing as she asked anyway. “Why do you want me to call Kitty?” Beeps sound on the other side of the stall door. He is searching for her number, probably infrequently used on his phone. The two of them always preferred to text.

“This is her fault. She is going to take responsibility. She is going to fix this. I have to know, definitively, what’s wrong with me.” She growls. “I hope I'm wrong.”

“Hey North…’Cause…Yeah, I’m here with England…Yes, England. Your, uh. Your br-brother…Well, if you were here you wouldn’t ask…Anyway…funny you should ask about her. I mean him…You shouldn’t have to ask that…What do you mean, you should?...North, you did this. You did this to him…What do you mean, what did you do?”

Katherine doesn't even know what she did? That is all England understands of the one-sided conversation. “Alfred, what the hell did she just say?!” She was immediately regretful for shouting.

“That was England…No shit it didn’t sound like Arthur! He’s not exactly himself in case you don’t remember. Oh, that’s right, you don’t remember! How the hell can you not remember, Katherine? How can you not remember doing this?”

England trembles on the seat, the cool air hits hard. Who the hell would have the air conditioning running in the winter? Tears come unbidden to her eyes and flow down her cheeks. She cannot make them stop. Sobs follow and they do nothing for the pain and the ache.

“Crying? That’s England…Because of your fucking curse!”

America is angry now. She’s glad she isn’t Northern Ireland, no one in the world wants to see America angry. The girl is apt to get a tongue lashing through the phone. If England felt better she’d do the lashing herself, and is suddenly wishes that she called her about the curse days ago. 

“I’m taking you home, England.” She missed part of their conversation, but no matter. America's voice is soft now, soothing and gentle. “I’ll do that, North.” His voice has hardened again, stern and unyielding. She concentrates on his voice. It takes attention away from herself. “You better be finding a way to break this curse-thingy, Katherine or no more visits to Disney World.”

Oh, silly America, what a moronic threat.

“Noooooo!” she hears a muffled wail. It’s the first she has been able to hear North through the phone during the conversation. Maybe the threat wasn’t so ridiculous after all. England tries to make a mental note to speak with Northern Ireland about silly holiday trips, but doubts that she will remember the thought for long.

_Thunk, thunk, thunk, squeak!_

“Okay, so North said that...”

_Thunk, thunk, thunk, squeak!_

England sighs and concentrates on trying to keep her mind clear and calm, and misses whatever it is that America mumbles, even though it seems important it. She just can't. 

_Thunk, thunk thunk, squeak!_

“You really need to co...”

She sighs again. She can't concentrate at all, it's just no use. This shouldn't be happening. This can't be right. He's bleeding. England glances down toward the spot underwear chanced to soak through, but there are already a couple more in the toilet, and that was a mistake. England had bled from many injuries in the past, but they were always for a reason, for a wound: gunshot, sword swipe, fist fight or otherwise, they always had a source, a reason. She was just bleeding..from a place no one should under normal circumstances. From anatomy he shouldn't even have.

_Thunk, thunk, thunk, squeak!_

“England?”

_Thunk, thunk, thunk, squeak!_

“England! Are you okay. You're not answering me!”

“Stop pacing and shut up!” 

“Are you okay?”

She takes a deep breath, hoping that it will keep the fear from her voice when she speaks. “I'm bleeding. I'm not okay!” Her voice breaks; it didn't work... It was one thing to have accepted having the body of a woman for a while, but this. This! England chokes back a sob, and starts crying all over again.

“England! What?” America knocks at the stall door. “England, get decent fast or I'm coming in there whether you like it or not!”

“What?” she gasps. “You wouldn't! You wouldn't dare!”

“You're hyperventilating. You're gonna pass out. We need to get you home. Now get decent or really...”

“You wouldn't?” she breaks down in hiccuping sobs again. Why was she crying, she can't remember.

He jostles the stall door. “I'm serious, England.”

“No! Don't come in.”

“Need to get you home. Come on,” America whispers through the crack in the door. “Oh wait!” America's feet thud across the bathroom and back again and a fist full of paper towels come from the bottom of the stall door toward her face.

“What's that about?”

“North said for you to...for you to...uh...” He gulps.

She wishes he would just get on with it. She does not want to stay in this smelly toilet stall all day. “Spit it out, Alfred. I don't have the patience right now.”

“Ugh!” he huffs. “Just stuff them in your underwear and let's get out of here already!” He sounds like a petulant child.

Both of them are equally uncomfortable, but neither want to point that out. England remains silent and does as suggested.

 

~*~

 

Somehow, while England figured out how to get the paper towels not to feel all bulky and cause her to waddle, America talked Germany into excusing them from the meeting.

She meets him back at the car, and he takes her keys. She could not drive anyway with her eyes all puffy, her head swimming, and her abdominal muscles twisted in knots. All she wants to do is cry.

“I can't believe I have to explain this to you,” he groans as he starts the engine, pulling out of the parking lot. 

“You don't.”

“You know what's going on and how to take care of it?”

England knows that his anatomy more fouled up than originally thought. “I think I...Well, it's possible...”

“Easy question. Yes or no?"

“Why don't you enlighten me!” England snaps, sarcasm flowing like lava. The tears begin anew.

“I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”

“Don't call me, baby!”

“Fine.” He sighs. “Ugh, this is awkward.”

She doubles over, wondering why it feels like her insides are being pummeled with a jackhammer. “Just go, Alfred.”

“Okay, okay. I will.” But be remains silent. He grips the steering column tighter and concentrates on the road—he's doing remarkably well for driving on the unfamiliar side of the road and facing such a situation. She watches a strange series of emotions pass over his face.

Suddenly, the car stops, and America turns off the engine. They have stopped in front of a chemist's shop.

“Give me a few minutes, and I'll be right back. Sit tight.” He pulls out his phone and wallet and leaves her in the car. 

“Obtuse, insensitive prat!” She sulks, wishing he would hurry back and that she could just leave him at the store. "Pity that he took the keys with him."

 

~*~

 

“I can't believe I have to explain this to you.” 

"You don't."

America drops the bags in England's lap and starts the car. “At least I embarrassed myself instead of dragging you along in there too, right? Geez.”

“You took my keys!” She punches him in arm, but knows it didn't hurt him. “You don't have to explain anything to me. You're an insensitive git, you know that? It's freezing out here.”

“Oh, it's not that cold in the car. Whatever. You would take off without me, otherwise.” Her silence probably tells him he's right. “Anyway, when I talked to North, well. She said...well, that you're...that it's...it's your...”

“Just say it, Alfred!”

England didn't want it said aloud. Didn't want to face what it is that his sister really did to him. But, he knew.

“Just look in the bags.”

“I don't want to.” England fears looking in the bags in his lap; there are several items in each and one contains a couple of boxes. They are the brightest pink on the planet (she can see through the bag) and make him shiver with an unspoken dread he does not wish to label.

“Geez, England, I only have a brother. You really should know. Y-you have sisters and f-female colonies and... How could you not...ugh!” he grumbles. “I didn't ever have to deal with this!”

“This isn't getting us anywhere. Just belt up! Drive us home.”

He drives in silence for a while longer, concentrating on the road. Finally, he glances over to the side with a grimace. “It's...it's your time of month,” he squeaks like the words pain him and stops in front of her house, cheeks flushed, looking as though he expects her to strike him. She would have already if he hadn't been driving, if he hadn't practically jumped out of the car, if she had the strength to muster.

She doesn't. Her breath catches in her throat. Her fear is confirmed, voiced aloud. Why did he have to say it?

 

~*~

 

America hefts their briefcases inside, leaving England with the dreaded bags; she has not braved a peek inside them yet.

He ushers her to the bathroom as soon as they walk through the door, and delivers her favorite pair of pyjamas and a new pair of pants, “panties” he calls them with a shaky hand and quivering voice. He sounds like a nervous teenager all over again, in new territory. It's new, different territory for the both of them, and England can understand his discomfort, and shares it as he figures out to what use and where all these bits in packages must go. However awkwardly creepy it is to admit, England wishes he had paid more attention to his sisters' girl-talk. Then, maybe, he would know what she should be doing right now. He wishes she didn't have to know what to do right now.

There are quite the variety of items in the bag. The pain relievers should go in the medicine cabinet, but she needs to take care of her bleeding problem first. And it seemed the easier, less awkward, of the two options Alfred had purchased were the pads, glad not to have to think about dealing with the alternative and putting something somewhere awkward.

England sighs and strips herself of her clothes, tossing them in the hamper, which she will take to wash just after she gets out of the shower. The nice, warm water clears her mind.

“Rose?” Alfred inquires from just outside the bathroom door. “England? Is everything alright?”

“Go away, Alfred! I'm showering,” she yells over the sound of running water, as though, somehow, America can see through the door.

“Fine. Um...just holler if you need anything.”

Yes, the warm water feels nice, England decides. But, it would feel so much better if her mind would clear and the throbbing in her lower abdomen would ease permanently.

 

~*~

 

America tries to stay busy while England is in the bathroom, tries to keep his mind focused. He throws some vegetables and chicken and herbs in a pot for soup. It's not hamburgers, but it will be chickeny goodness when it's finished, and with both of them on edge, they can use all the comfort that comfort food can give them.

“Feeling better already.” When America turns, still stirring the pot, England has sat at the kitchen table.

He rests the spoon down against a random bowl still on the counter and goes to sit next to her. “Awesome.” She looks like death warmed over, but it wont' dare tell her that.

“You've made a right mess of my kitchen.” She had smiled when he first glanced over at her, but that slight smile has disappeared and now she seems so sullen with her arms wrapped so tightly around her middle.

“Just making something nice for you.”

“Couldn't you have at least cleaned up a bit?” He almost thinks she is joking, except for the way her mouth remains in a firm line and her eyes scanned the kitchen counters; although, they aren't very focused and rather watery. “Keep your own home the way you like, just pick up after yourself when you're here. I like mine to stay tidy and organized.” She sniffs and looks down at the table.

“Oh, please. You've misplaced your keys in the fridge just like I have.”

“I do not!”

“And you leave your shoes out near the door all the time," he adds.

“You lose your glasses on your head.”

“Well, you fall asleep during every world meeting like the old man you are.”

“What? I don...I...I...” England goes quiet and turns away, swallowing hard. Her breath comes in quiet shallow puffs. 

America opens his mouth to say something, but cannot imagine what could be wrong—England was spunky and arguing less than a minute ago, just as they always did—nor can he understand how their conversation may have driven England to end the argument just like that. Wait...is she crying?

“England?” Quickly, America rushes to her side, but she ducks away from his arms and from the table.

“Don't touch me!” She disappears around the corner, retreating to the living room.

What just happened? He sits back at the kitchen table, staring down the hallway, eyes wide.

He did not even get a chance to tell her he had no time to clean when she came in onr that he wanted to surprise her with the soup. 

He decides to give her ten minutes before he goes to see what is wrong.

 

~*~

 

England coils herself up on the sofa and pulls a pillow up to her stomach. After taking pain medication for the persistent ache, her muscles no longer trouble her, but she cannot shake the uneasy feeling, and now she feels like her head is swimming in disarray. She is so distracted by the fatigue and fuzzy feeling in her head and the blood-loss. Oh, the blood. England has never been afraid of blood before, bled many times from many wounds. But, this is terrifying.

She reaches for something to distract her. Something to think about other than the blood and the vertigo and the exhaustion.

What was that...in the kitchen?

Alfred had made her soup and all she could do was quibble at him when he had been nothing but helpful and thoughtful and kind. Her thoughts fail her, and whenever she tries—even in the kitchen, even now—her mind feels like it will soon shut down entirely. In need of some sort of release, she hugs the pillow tighter to her chest and cries.

How pathetic, being reduced to this. The more England fights the tears and the whimpers that come unbidden, the more they come.

She blinks, but when she opens her eyes again, the sun has shifted; the room is darker. It must be late afternoon now. Alfred let her sleep, and she feels much better for it. She shifts to glance at the grandfather clock, but pauses. Alfred is slumped at the opposite end of the sofa, a book fallen closed in his lap with his finger wedged uncomfortably inside as a living book marker. He is asleep.

She sighs and notices the wonderful savory aroma that has permeated through her house and sighs. 

The sound is enough to wake America. “England?” He rests his book on the side table and moves to her side of the sofa. “You feeling better?”

She nods and the urge to latch onto him is magnetic, so she sinks against his chest. “I'm sorry,” she mumbles into his chest.

He hugs her against him, rubbing soothing circles into her shoulders. “'S alright. I don't understand, but as long as your not crying because of me and you're feeling better, it's alright.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey, you slept right through lunch. And supper time isn't for a while. Do you want anything?”

She bit her lip. How long had she been asleep? “Just some tea.”

“Sure thing.” He releases her and stands up, stretching his muscles. “But you really should eat something. North's suggestion.”

Truth be told, there was a taste lurking on her tongue and a smell ghosting at her nose that masks the aroma of the soup.

She gulps. “Well then, um, bring me chocolate biscuits, please?” Yes, chocolate is the scent.

“Chocolate…biscuits?”

“You know…cookies? The crunchy ones.” arms crossed against her chest, mouth lined in a pout, “Something sweet?”

“Sure, like I said, whatever you want.”

She smiles. “Thank you, darling.” England stands and tips her head up to kiss his cheek.

 

~*~

 

They have a quiet afternoon. They watch a movie, eat Alfred's soup—his chicken soup really was a marvel, she decides—and go to bed early. Alfred is very amenable to the idea of cuddling, and she was glad he is content with that and nothing more.

“You sure you're feeling good enough to go back to the meeting?” His flat glance meant business, but she really did feel better. “I can just tell them that you're sick. They'd believe it.”

“No, really, I can manage. I'm feeling much better this morning.” England will not let something as trivial as a woman's menses conquer him. Women have managed careers with it, so can he. America does not need to know that she woke up three different times last night—once for the toilet and twice from the cold and aches.

“Alright, if you're sure.”

“Yes.” She smiled at him, hoping that she can hold herself together. If England could survive warfare, he could survive this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout this story there are real, true things that have happened to me or someone I know that I adapted for the plot, roughly, and used reactions from some of my exes. If I can say one thing about BMCBP, it is certainly therapeutic.
> 
> The title comes from the song "I Didn't Know I Was Lost" from "Wake Me Up" by Mike Einziger, Aloe Blacc and Avicii. If you haven't heard this song unplugged/acoustic version, head to YouTube and check it out. It's worth it.


	8. Got My Head Spinning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names (as a reminder):  
> Ireland - Eireann (Okay, I changed Ireland's name from the original. It was Maggie, and I didn't like it.)  
> Northern Ireland – Katherine /Kitty, I know that I've kind of taken liberties with making Northern Ireland female.
> 
> Warning – This chapter contains vomiting and extremely brief, but graphic, description of what happens to the uterus during menstruation. Just covering my back, folks. I might not be squeamish, but I'm also not a doctor. Peace.

Chapter 8 – Got My Head Spinning

~*~

England attempts to present late in the morning, and pauses between points, waiting for a muscle in her lower back to stop spasming, but it doesn't. The ghosting of pain started soon after she and Alfred took their seats at the table, after fielding another round of questioning and ridiculousness. Really the lot of them were so immature. Everything is so fuzzy and she feels as though she's been run through with a sword or maybe bludgeoned?—England knows intimately what that feels like after centuries of duels and battles as master swordsman, archer, and sharpshooter, but this is something entirely new.

And, that damnable muscle won't stop twitching!

She presses a hand to her lower abdomen and takes a deep breath. It's like life is seeping away. Since she stood to start her speech, the pain has grown exponentially, and now her vision swims and she drowns in...she knows not what kind of pain nor how to describe it adequately. The sudden disconnect to both the room and her own muscle control is startling. She shivers despite the ribbon of perspiration down her spine, and leans heavily against the podium.

Almost deaf to the continual murmur of idle chatter, the ringing in her ears and pervasive nothingness fills her head. She reels from the way everyone seems to be moving in slow-motion, but still too quick for her to keep track of the movements of everything in the room. The inexplicable feeling of panic just grows. Must get out. There is absolutely no use in fighting this anymore. There is no way that she can get through her speech! Besides the fact that she feels like she is going stark raving mad—possibly insane—from the vertigo. Besides the fact that her muscles spasming are beyond distracting. If she opens her mouth to make one more attempt to start her speech...she might just throw up. 

A hard swallow does not keep the watery, coppery cotton down her throat to her satisfaction and she lurches forward and rushes toward the door to find the closest toilet. Too quickly and not quickly enough.

“England!” America shouts, is vaguely aware that he runs after her.

The floor comes to swallow her up.

She blinks and they are outside now, beside her car. She shakes, and her breath come in shallow pants, clinging to the muscular arm wrapped around her, trying to get her into the passenger seat. Despite swallowing again and again, her stomach still curls in on itself, and she drops to her knees on the ground. “A-Al-Alfred! Wait!” She should not have spoken, cannot hold in the remnants of her breakfast any longer and heaves it up. If it wasn't for Alfred holding her up, she would collapse. “Oh god,” she whispers. Torn between the warmth of his embrace and aversion to pain from movement, she flinches. He stills. 

“Shh,” he soothes, and smooths her hair. He wraps his arms around her again, gently nudging her up to his chest, and into the opened car, lets him lower her to the passenger seat.

They drive down the road, but she cannot recall when he closed the car door.

"Oh my god," she hears him say. “Shh. Shh. I'm taking you home. We're going home.” She is vaguely aware of Alfred driving and speaking to her. Isn't sure what he says. She glances over at America, and her eyes slowly examine him. At least she hadn't vomited on him.

Their trip back to the house passes like a series of photographs.

She blinks again, and he has her in his arms carrying her inside and upstairs, depositing her on the bathroom floor. He's still talking to her, but she cannot respond, afraid she'll be sick again. On instinct, she kneels in front of the toilet and vomits, unaware there was anything left but stomach fluid. A moment later, her stomach heaves again, but there is nothing left to empty.

When she glances toward the door, Alfred has disappeared, but he reappears a moment later with a glass, some pills, a mug of something, and saltines. She smells chicken broth.

“Iron and B twelve,” he says, and nausea medication and more pain relievers, a different type than those she took during their mid-morning break, a few hours ago. “I remember ya'll are all anemic. This'll help. Have some of the saltine crackers first." England isn't used to relying so heavily on medication, but does as instructed, because what is there to loose.

"Step out." England says. "I need to use the loo."

"What if you pass out again."

"I really think you should leave, Alfred."

"I don't know."

"I'll call if I need anything. Stay outside the door, if you want." He remains propped against the door frame. She stares pointed into his eyes, trying to drive homer her point without having to explain. "I need to check my blood loss."

America winces and whines. "Fine, but I'll be right outside the door." Finally he leaves, closing the door behind him. "You know, if we were human I'd have taken you straight to a hospital. This might be different for you, but it can't be normal."

She doesn't respond, and goes to work doing what is necessary as quickly as possible. 

England takes a moment, fighting her tremors and double-vision, and changes the pad (pushing conscious thought processes aside) and then rises out her mouth.

America hands over her pyjamas and turns for her to change. He helps her crawl in bed, piling on the blankets. She asks for more. The nausea has passed—the medication America gave her must have been fast-acting—but the cold sweat remains.

She grasps his retreating hand. Needs his touch as mysterious tears run unbidden down her cheeks. Confused about why she's crying, she looks away, but still needs him near, doesn't want to be alone. He resists. She sees the fear and distress in his eyes, the uncertainty in his movements, the way he clutches his phone in his other hand. He has been on the phone with Northern Ireland. That's fine. It is her fault anyway.

He talks to her, "why are you crying, please don't cry," but she can only grunt in response.

She languishes in a listless un-sleep. Longs to sleep. It will not come, and time looses meaning. The lingering ache makes her writhe, prevents her from settling enough to relax. She ends up contorting herself and resorting to acupressure to ease the muscle spasm. It doesn't work, and is only a distraction from sleep. The lilt of America's voice distracts her from the pain. At some point the bedding shifts and then she feels again the familiar pressure of a body resting behind her. The heat pad pressed against her stomach feels comforting, as does Alfred's hand pressing gentle, firm circles against the twitching muscles in her lower back. It is much more effective than pressing the area herself.

Woman throughout history around the world have managed. How do they do this?

England doesn't remember the point at which she finally surrenders to sleep.

 

~*~

 

England wakes to dim light diffused through her bedroom curtains. The pain has eased, and for that she is thankful. America is gone again. She glances toward the doorway, expecting Alfred to appear, but he does not. She has slept through much of the day. It is evening now, but still has no urge to get out of bed and be productive. No compulsion to move. She feels grouchy, heavy, and glad that Alfred isn't around for her to grouse at him.

Still, she is discontent, as though she will not be satisfied until she has berated someone. Why? Out of the corner of her eye, she glances her phone on the bed-side table, and scoops it up before she can think.

The connecting line rings twice. Northern Ireland clears her throat. “Hello? May I call you back, Arthur? I'm in the middle of tea with Ire--”

“Now look here, you!” England screeches. “What the hell have you done to me?” She has to pause, that took more effort than it should have.

“England,” she huffs, “really, let me call you back. Later.” The girl sounds nervous, and England hears Ireland question her, but cannot understand what either of them say next.

“Don't you dare hang up on me, North!” England is aware that she should resist the urge to yell, because her muscles tense in response even lying down “Katherine!”

“Oh fine,” she whines. “What is it you want, then?”

“What did you do to me!? Why am I a woman?!”

“A what?” England hears Ireland this time. “What the hell did you do, North?” There is a scuffling on the other end of the conversation. “Give me the phone! Give it to me, or you lose it for a week!” 

"You can't do that!"

"Give it to me anyway!"

There is more scuffling, and muffled protests. The phone is passed from one sister to the other. “England, we'll call you back shortly.” The line goes dead. With rage unabated, she must now sit staring at the phone. One of them sure as hell better call her back soon, because in five minutes she'll do so herself, and give them a tongue lashing for the trouble.

Much to her dread, Alfred appears in the doorway, face pale, eyes wide. Still, she does not want to chastise him for no reason; he has been nothing but helpful.

He sits next to her on the very edge of the bed like she's a live wire. “Are you okay?”

She glances down at the small space separating them. “Hardly.” She leans away against the pillows, wrinkling her nose. With her sour stomach, the aroma of hamburgers that clings to him is off-putting. The stench is strong; he's eaten them recently. In her house.

“I heard you yelling.”

“I'm alright.” She can hardly think for the malodorous beef scent.

He glances down at the mobile phone, still clutched in her hand. “You called Kitty?”

“Yes.”

He nods. “Do you need anything?”

She needs him to leave. “Explication.”

“Huh?”

“Obviously not from you," she says more crossly than she had intended.

“M'sorry.” He fidgets, looking at the rug like a kicked puppy, tracing its patterns with his foot. “Do you...” he swallows hard. “Do you want me to leave?”

Her mobile phone chooses that moment to ring—a jig, Ireland is calling. “Oh, do whatever you want,” she says, but she wanted to say “yes.”

America flees to the chair at the far side of the room, watching the light slowly fade through the curtains. She can smell him all the way across the room.

She answers the phone with a huff. “Well?”

“Don't you answer the phone at me that way, lad.” England is impressed; Ireland did not take the opportunity to call him a lass under the circumstances. "Though, I suppose I should call you lass." Ireland laughs.

"Get on with it." She sighs, but lets Ireland continue in her own time, because she will just hang up otherwise.

“The curse was an accident,” Ireland says.

“And?”

“Here then, I'll let her explain it herself.” England hears a protested 'no.' “Yes, you will, young lady. No getting out of this. Here's the phone. Here she is.” 'Now explain,' Ireland no longer holds the phone, but England can still hear her.

“North?” England sighs again.

Northern Ireland groans timidly. “Yes?”

“Why?”

“I was feeling under the weather.”

“Yes, and I find myself in a position that,” she sucks in a deep breath, “I understand!” she yells into the phone, and hisses afterward from the effort.

“Sorry.”

“No, you're not. Why did you do it?”

“Ugh, men...ow! Don't flick me, Eireann!” England chuckles at her. “Okay, I was grouchy.”

“Well, now I find I do understand that, as well.”

“I was...You weren't...Well, ugh! This is stupid!”

“You're damn right it is! I'm bleeding out of anatomy I'm not supposed to have!” She heard American whimper. England feels like whimpering too. “Oh, man up or leave!” she grumbles at him. She would really like him to grant her a reprieve from the burger smell.

Instantly, laughter erupts on the other side of the phone conversation. “Oh, that's rich, coming from you, Arthur,” Northern Ireland's giggles. “Just last month you..." The laughing abruptly stops. "Um.”

“Now is not the time for um, Katherine.”

“Oh, I...” 

“Yes, North?”

“You...I...”

“Complete sentences, please, love.” England fights not to shout again. To remain as calm as he is able. Because, oh it hurts when he tenses his muscles. It is so difficult not to freely lose his temper.

“Well, us women have this saying that if men. Well...if they had...” Still, she could not complete a thought. They both huffed into the phone.

“We wish upon them one good period,” Ireland said; she had pinched the phone back. “A really good one. North here cursed you. Must have been a wish or something. What did you do to her for her to want that so much more than usual? She hasn't got much magic, you know.”

“I know. And, I don't know what I did. It was a month ago.”

“Well, whatever it was, this should only last a few more days. It's a monthly cycle.”

“I know some basic female anatomy, Ireland. Never mind that the intricacies on the subject are only recently obtained.”

“Oh, good,” her sarcasm comes thickly, though she sounds sickeningly perky. “So just continue everything as you normally would. Our monthly cycle stops for no woman—or man. You'll be fine, darling. Just keep up with the B twelve get plenty of iron—Katherine said that she told America a few things to help you. You'll be fine, really. I know you hurt, just get some rest. Keep warm, fed and watered.”

She suddenly felt like a plant. “Thanks, Eireann.”

“I've already scolded the girl. She really is sorry. Don't be sore at her for too long, Art. I'd try to have her lift the curse, but it's for the duration, and you should change back when it's over.”

“Thank you again. I...I think you'll find me a bit more sympathetic in the future.” He really wants to cry again, but can't think of why. Has so many questions, but is afraid he'll be laughed at again. They deal with this all the time. He risks it anyway. “One thing?”

“Yes?”

“When does the bleeding stop?”

“It could be four days, it could be five or even six. It all depends,” her voice trials off. “Although,” she hums, “it's not all just blood, ye know.”

“What do you mean?” He tries not to sound panicked.

“Well...” And, suddenly she sounds positively impish. “Well, it's the lining of your uterus.”

“Uterus? What?!”

Alfred groans; he has gone as pale and green as England feels.

“Oh shut it, Alfred!”

“You aren't thinking clearly about that female anatomy you said you know of. Yes, it's squeezing and twisting," she taunts, "pulling on the bits that hold it in place in there, until it rips itself free and flushes itself out.”

“Oh, god," he squeaks.

“Yeah, you get the picture.”

“I'm living the picture, thanks,” he wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. “I understand.” England does not understand why he just thanked her for the graphic explanation. “I'm sorry.” The phrase “for everything” remains unsaid, but is fully implied.

“It means a lot, Arthur. It really does. Now, put your little Alfie on the phone. We don't want you cursing him. Poor darling hasn't said a word, and he usually steals your phone when he knows you're talking to me. Must be scarred stiff if he heard even just your end of the conversation.”

America has probably fled again; England is sure that he would have if their positions were reversed. “America!” England looks over at the doorway, yelling to be heard down the hall. “Ireland wants--”

“You don't have to shout.” Alfred rises from the chair, pocketing his mobile phone.

“Oh! You're still here?”

He nods, still pale.

“Ireland says she wants to talk to you.” She hands him the phone as he sits at the foot of the bed; America doesn't look at her.

“Hey Erin.” He sounds tired and hesitant. England doesn't follow their conversation, but, instead, attends to the fluctuations in Alfred's voice—tight and uncomfortable—and the dark rose that tints his cheeks to his ears, the way he seems to curl in on himself under England's gaze, aware that she is watching, but unwilling to look back. He's not actually embarrassed, as she first suspects, but flustered and bewildered. England would be as well under the same circumstances.

England feels the urge to cry again; America still smells horrible, and does not hesitate to tell him when their conversation concludes. She makes him promise not to eat hamburgers in her house anymore.

"Okay," jut tell me what you want for dinner."

"I don't really think I could eat anything if I tried."

“But, England!” America whines. “Ireland said that you need to eat something before you go to bed tonight.”

“I told you I'm not hungry.”

“She said it would be really bad news if you didn't eat.”

“I don't want anything.”

“There's some soup left.”

“No.”

“How about tea and some of those chocolate things you like.”

She shakes her head.

“You really have to eat. I'm just doing what Ireland told me. I don't want Erin to get mad at me. She's scary when she's mad," he whines and scrunches up his face.

“Well, I'm about to get mad at you, right now.”

“I don't want that either.”

“Look, Alfred, even if I felt like eating anything, which I don't, I wouldn't even know what I wanted.”

“Just tell me,” he whinged on. “I'll bring you whatever. Anything!”

“I don't know!”

He groans and gives a gentle punch to the bed post. “Come on!”

“I am not hungry, Alfred.” She crosses her arms against her chest. “But, if you're so damned adamant about bringing me something to eat, help yourself. I don't care what it is as long as it doesn't have a strong smell or a strong taste. And, I suppose you can just bring me some tea while your at it.” She huffs and settles back against the pillows.

“Geez, was that so hard?” he mutters more to the air than England, and walks out of the room without any further to-do.

“And go take a shower!” she yells. “You still stink of beef!”

 

~*~

 

England is grateful for dinner by the time she finishes it. She hadn't realized how hungry she really was until she started eating. The soup is still delicious, and Alfred even brought himself up a bowl so he could eat with her. And, he had showered. It isn't until he departs for the kitchen with their empty soup bowls, and England's tea cup to refill it, that she realizes she just had dinner in bed. The emotion overcomes her and tears well in her eyes to spite her and fall just as America looks over at her.

She curses her luck.

He says nothing, or pretends not to notice, as he leaves her tea cup on the bed side table and leaves with a tense and quiet “good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from: "Got My Head Spinning" from "All of Me" by John Legend. I still love this song!


	9. Don't Worry, Baby

Chapter 9 – Don't Worry Baby

The third day of agony passes much as the second, except she elects not to attend the meeting (America does) and the horrid cold-sweat debacle does not return. Instead, uneasiness and discomfort in her skin replace it. She's tired of the persistent blood-loss, and remembers being informed that it is not all blood, but a body part he shouldn't have that she is losing. At least she is able to keep her meals down. It feels like someone's knocked the wind out of him, stabbed him and something is eating him away from the inside. All at the same time. How to describe it! How do women do this? 

This constant discomfort. It is an itch that he cannot scratch.

She feels America's absence and can never decide whether or not she is relieved that she is alone. She still feels sour, so perhaps it is better that he left. But, would she feel even better if she could just complain at something?

Alfred returns at lunch time, gives her a quick overview of the meeting so far. She has not missed much, disagreements and fights—business as usual. They lean in for a kiss, and America lingers for a second. But, that coffee smell, it nearly makes her gag. She backs away, disappointed.

“Alfred,” she grouses, “go brush your teeth or something.”

“What!?”

“You reek of coffee.”

“The meetings 're so boring without you there! I gotta have something to keep me awake!”

“Oh, don't lie! You drink the wretched murk all the time.”

“Hey! You're the one who introduced it to me! Did you forget?”

“Ugh! Don't you need to get back before the end of the lunch break?”

“Fine,” he huffs and departs with a brief “see you later,” muttering as he stomps to the door. "There's no talking to you." 

The door slams before she can respond, so she slumps back on the sofa and sulks.

She gets another call from Northern Ireland later in the afternoon. Again with no apology, but they talk for a while. Northern Ireland claims it is to keep her company for someone to grouse at. England believes it is because North is suffering through her period again, too. Despite what the girl thinks, he always did pay attention—he thinks. Although, he understands more now. By no means is he thankful for the new found knowledge. If there was some other way the female populace could provide men understanding of their plight? Maybe explain it a bit more fully? But, he realizes, suddenly, how many men would even stay through the entire explanation? How many would care to understand? Deep down, he believes that he would.

Oddly enough, the conversation sparks a bit of life back into England that she cannot quite identify, so she decides to wander the house, spend time in the library. She quickly retreats back upstairs to her room to fetch a thicker pair of socks and her thickest housecoat before she spends much time out of her bedroom, out from under the heavy blankets. It feels so nice being in the library with a pot of tea and chocolate biscuits. England has never quite eaten so many in so short a time. She sends Alfred a text to drop by the store and get her some more on his way home.

Upon America's return from the meeting, with more chocolate biscuits and two containers of take-away curry, he resumes being clingy and quiet. England is unused to America being so quiet and compliant.

Like a puppy, he does not let her go anywhere, besides the bathroom, without him.

There are no more meetings scheduled for the rest of the week. America will be home with her for the duration and she suddenly wonders how things will go. Will she still be on edge? Will the hormones calm down?

 

~*~

 

England pokes at breakfast the next morning, once again, not very hungry. Her head is clearer than it has been, but her muscles still feel taut and strained. She forces down the oatmeal, sips at her tea, and notices the absence of coffee in the kitchen, unable to make eye contact with Alfred sitting across the table. He shoos her from the kitchen when she's finished.

It is nice to get back to work again with the pain relievers flowing through her veins. England does not like to take pills, and decides, if he were a woman he would not be able to bare taking birth control pills constantly, forever—did female nations even take them? Did they need to? Will he be comfortable enough to ask once the curse ends?

She gets a lovely sense of accomplishment out of working, even though she isn't going into the office, merely completing her work in her home study. She doesn't want anyone in her government to know she is a woman. Some things are best left unsaid. Let them continue to believe she has been ill.

By lunch time, her energy is running low; when she would normally take her meal and continue working, she stops. Doesn't tell Alfred, and ventures into the kitchen, secretly rejoicing that he overdoes everything. Makes too much soup for one day—enough for another couple days. She grins; soup improves as leftovers.

It leaves her satisfied, but not energized as she had hoped. While moving from unyielding desk chair to comfy sofa with a book and cup of tea—she cannot seem to make herself return to work and strain her back—she realizes that she has not actually seen Alfred since breakfast. Why didn't he say anything?

She yawns once and scoots back into the cushion to read.

 

~*~

 

Alfred's shuffling wakes her from a dream—about him. One of those dreams where his hands roam all over, and his smell overwhelms her. He is sat down at the end of the sofa, since her feet don't reach the end, Alfred has taken advantage of that. He stares at her. No, he is asleep.

She shifts, but he does not. How long did it take her to transition from sleep to waking?

Her blanket drops to the side as she stretches, and the cold air taunts her. She wraps it close again, but the damage is done. At her feet, warmth. Alfred radiates heat. Like a cat, she seeks it out, curls up close, uncaring that this is an invasion of the personal space they both value so dearly. In an act of shameless self-indulgence, she stretches out: her chest against his chest, her stomach across his stomach, her legs between his legs—all curled up together. America doesn't seem to mind the contact, she decides, because he unconsciously stretches out on the sofa, pulling her up into a loose, comfortable embrace, and he smells quite nice, not sensual like in her dream, but comforting. She shrugs. His arms are warm, and they circle around her waist; his chest is cozy. She pulls the blanket up, covering them both and drifts back to sleep. This is how they should be. They belong like this.

 

~*~

 

Her dream continues; now, she is cocooned in warmth instead of passion with Alfred surrounding her, his arms holding her tightly. She wakes to warmth and to Alfred staring down at her ambivalently. His fingers stroking her hair and her back are not enough to distract from the recurring, persistent discomfort. When will it end?

“England?” he whispers into her ear, “shift a bit.” His voice is tense.

She grunts but does as he asks, afraid that he is uncomfortable or needs to get up. Why did he have to ask her to move? She's not prepared for the sudden change in elevation as he takes her in his arms.

“What are you doing, Alfred?” It is amusing and bothersome, being toted around, and it jostles her terribly.

“Carrying you.”

“Well that's obvious. Why?”

“You were moaning, and I didn't want to disturb you, but I figured that you might want to rest somewhere more comfortable than on me on your sofa."

“However sweet that is, Alfred. I am perfect capable of getting to bed and getting something for my muscle aches all on my own. Kindly put me down.”

“But, you sounded like you were in so much pain.”

“Release me, please.” Anything to calm the wild ride.

“But, England,” he continues to whine.

“Put. Me. Down.”

Finally, he does as she asks, and as quickly and carefully as she is able, England wanders up to her room, sending Alfred off to seek out whatever he can find to get rid of twitching muscles.

 

~*~

 

England's appetite returns little by little. She feels ravenous for breakfast the next morning, and lets Alfred make whatever he wants, resolved to steal bits while he cooks. She remains mindful of what she puts into her stomach, keeps it moderate, but is genuinely glad to be hungry. Glad her energy seems to be returning. Slowly.

She does some mental calculations, it's the fifth day after the bleeding started. Wishes desperately that it would all stop. Make it stop. She makes another phone call to Northern Ireland to ask again. Katherine laughs, but they end up bemoaning fate together, and England ends the conversation rather prematurely. He still feels uncomfortable as a woman, but that conversation came as a shock. He...he understood; he thinks. Kitty sounded pained, but fine. He will be fine.

An overwhelming urge to clean and tidy the house serves as an adequate distraction.

 

~*~

 

America watches England bustle around the house with wide, suspicious eyes. Though, England cleaning is no new phenomenon, she still looks tired and distressed. Maybe this marks a turning point? He doesn't know, has never noticed the habits of a woman on her period before, despite having a pseudo-auntie and pseudo-cousin and plenty of first ladies and their daughters—they always sent him away or shooed him off. He gives thought to calling one of them and asking if nesting behavior is a typical symptom.

He is even more surprised when England asks for take-away curry for lunch, again, but complies without fuss. She didn't seem to care for his fussing the last time.

In addition to the take out, he brings home an additional couple packages of chocolate biscuits. The extra few minutes and risk of cold curry was worth the look of glee. He will never mention the squeal of delight that might or might not have accompanied it. No one needs to know—not even England. But, he will forever relish the quick kiss he received before she dashed off to the kitchen. He fingers his lips with a smile before he follows after her.

He is glad when they cuddle on the couch again after dinner that night. He could get used to this, though he knows he shouldn't, because England should be turning back any time—although, who is to say that they can't still do this when he's back to normal. They will cross that bridge when they get to it. He will have to go back home soon anyway.

She giggles and is nuzzling his cheek with hers, distracting him from his thoughts. England doesn't generally giggle.

“What is it?”

“N-nothing. Thank you, Alfred.”

“Eh, I try to be a hero,” he says in mock seriousness, but it makes her smirk and she kisses his forehead, so it's okay.

“I appreciate your help and company.”

He blushes. It seems to make her giggle and nuzzle his cheek again.

He kisses her the crown of her head, and then her cheek.

“You should have shaved. You’re stubbly.”

“Huh, you didn't complained about that before…” He let a finger trail across her jaw line. “And your cheeks are soft." She blushes pink. “Is that all, baby, five o‘clock shadow?”

“Hmph,” she grumbles, and turns away. “Don't call me baby?"

That was insensitive of him, he realizes and freezes. “Okay, okay, England," he whispers. "I'm sorry.”

She lowers her head back down to his chest.

 

~*~

 

The next day, America notices that England skin feels cooler to the touch, the color in her cheeks has returned, and by the evening she no longer wears all those layers of clothing. England wears one of his shirts. Not one of the shirts they got her as a woman. Oh no. It's one of England's button-down pajama shirts that he would usually wear with pajama bottoms, but she isn't wearing a pair now. She wears it with a pair of boxers.

It's the most alluring thing America has ever seen.

What the hell?

He noticed since she shouldered off her housecoat just after dinner, when they settled on the couch to watch a movie before bedtime. The shirt is big on her, but only because, as a woman, England's shoulders are narrower. Somehow, his chest (as a woman) remained the same width as her chest (as a man). Only her slim waist makes her breasts noticeable for what they are. Oh god, this is confusing. Her waist disappears underneath the shirt, and the thing just flows down to the tops of her thighs, lower than it would be on England (as a man). Barely covering the hem of her boxers. Sexy as hell. He could almost picture England as either man or woman dressed as he is now. America can barely breathe.

England waves a hand in front of his face and he blinks. “What are you smiling at like a fool?” She smiles.

“Nothing.”

“Looks like something to me.”

“You uh...”

“What about me?” she teases. It's almost flirtatious. Or maybe it is? It probably is with that smile she looks like a vixen. "Words, Alfred. Use them."

England is feeling better. Thank god, England is feeling better!

“You look nice in that shirt.”

“Oh, do I?” she hums. She like she's going to eat him up.

He scratches the back of his neck. “Eee, yeah.”

“Well, I'm glad. It's my favorite shirt. I missed it.”

“Maybe you'll change back soon.”

“I hope so. This has all been very trying.”

“I couldn't imagine.”

“No, you can't.” England sounds very certain and matter-of-fact about that.

America has no plan to argue, doesn't really want to know. He's just glad that he's been able to help.

“I'm sure you'll be glad when that shirt fits right again?”

“Hmm.” She gives him a long, appraising look, her smile gone. “Will you, Alfred?”

He shrugs. “Really,” America pauses to choose his words carefully, “I think the shirt looks good on you either way, R...Eng. Arthur.”

England's mouth gaps open in a moment of surprise, and then slowly curls into a hint of a smile. Whoever says that America cannot be subtle or read the atmosphere has not spoken to him in the moments that really matter.

“Thank you, love,” she whispers into his ear, her voice low and husky enough that America can almost imagine that it's the voice of England as a man again. She covers his eyes with her hand and kisses him, a lingering brush of lips. He loses track of the seconds as the grandfather clock ticks away. But, suddenly England breaks the contact and looks away.

She yawns, afterward. “I'm sleepy. Take a nap with me?”

“It's a bit late for that, isn't it?”

“Fine then. Go to bed early?”

He glances at the clock: only eight in the evening. “A little too early.”

“Stay down here then, I'm heading to bed anyway.”

“Hm, well. Guess I'm kinda tired too.”

“Okay.” She takes him by the hand and leads the way upstairs, slowly, stealing glances at him through half-lidded eyes.

She settles into bed, still in the pajama shirt and boxers. America wonders if she has anything on underneath as he strips down to his own boxers and undershirt. By the time he slips underneath the bedding next to England, he decides that it doesn't matter. He is glad to be given this privilege. They pull the covers up and cuddle together, legs tangled, England's weight comfortable against his chest. America falls asleep with his arms wrapped around England, breathing in Earl Grey and petrichor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, the title of this chapter is one of my favorite songs. It's so old! But so good. And, will be used for something else to do with the sequel. There is only one chapter left. I have some major tweaking to do with it. I tweak everything. I can't leave anything alone!


	10. Let Her Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry this has taken me so long, and that it is significantly shorter than most of the other chapters.

Chapter 10 : Let Her Go

England wakes up and cannot move, wrapped in a vice, pajama top tight around the shoulders. Wait, no. It fits. Perfectly. It's just twisted.

The room is still dark, but England is too lazy to turn over to check the alarm clock. Sometime in the middle of the night is a close enough approximation. Too early to stir. Too early to think.

Besides, sluggish achy muscles encourage laziness. It won't hurt to sleep in until, oh, whenever. Might as well get even more comfortable.

With a shift, England realizes that America's grip is quite firm, but warm, so England shifts only slightly to get more comfortable. Their chests brush.

England's chest is not cushiony as it was when he fell asleep.

He shifts again.Yes, everything, everything, is back as it should be.

He is male again.

An incredible peace envelops him, instead of the exhilaration and excitement he had anticipated when the reversion would come, the revelation calms him; he relaxes and sinks back to sleep. 

 

~*~ 

 

A few winks later, England blinks awake to the glow of mid-morning sunlight and America's heavy breathing. He stretches his muscles, takes a brief moment to explore, take anatomical inventory, and is reminded anew that his body has returned to normal. He feels the sparks of familiarity from the tips of his toes to the ends of his hair to the penis between his thighs. It feels like home. It feels like home.

Wasting time lazing in bed no longer holds the same fascination, but he does not have the heart to wake America. Holding his breath, England eases from the grip ofAmerica's arms, pausing at a short, startled snort of breath. Nothing comes of it; Alfred still sleeps soundly. He must be dreaming, England decides, and elects once again to let him sleep. There will be plenty of time for celebration. Finally, he extricates himself, covers the sleeping nation, and slinks out of bed.

He starts getting ready to face the day, a new man, and looks upon his face the mirror with joy at needing to shave. He hesitates, razor in hand, and decides to let the reddish scruff remain, a telltale vestige of family relations; welcome now, though usually a personal bane as it paints him with three different hair shades: blond, red, and brunet. Ridiculous sight, is what it is. Oh that gloriously infernal ginger stubble! He cocks an dark eyebrow at his reflection, scratches his fingers along the scruff at his jawline. He looks like a right mess. Much as he did as a pirate. He grins.

There is a missed call and voice message on his mobile, he discovers, when he settles on the sofa with a cup of tea. It is a reminder that Northern Ireland will be flying into London on her way home from visiting friends, and she still wants to see him. 

 

~*~

 

England picks Northern Ireland up from the airport, wearing black trousers and fingering the shirt under his jacket, shuffling his heels from the heaviness of his shoes. He hadn't expected to have become unused to his own skin, and happy to be in it—even though, technically it was his own skin before. He grunts out a sigh to rid himself out of thought. 

Instead, he turns his attention to Northern Ireland. Despite her make up, she looks quite pale, and slumps in on herself as though she cannot wrap her coat tightly enough to keep out the chill that is completely absent so far inside the cafe, away from the wind and rain. He debates if ordering tea would be the best plan, and decides against it.

“What's that strawberry tart all over your chin?" she grouses at him, her voice little more than a murmur.

"Couldn't be arsed to shave." He rubs at the stubble.

"Do you fancy yourself Scotland now? You look like a right mess, Art."

"Why thank you." He smiles. "But I resent that remark."

He was enjoying their familial bantering, but she merely groans in response, and the conversation crumbles as she leans heavily against the table. Watching her fold in on herself, he realizes what's wrong.

"Why on earth are you traveling right now, Kitty?" he asks, a worried frown furrowing his eyebrows.

She sighs and shrugs, and then tenses just afterward as though movement is painful. "Had it planned already."

“If you had explained,” he whispers, “I would have understood.”

“Maybe I didn't want to explain,” she says reluctantly, her tone full of the regret she cannot express.

“I would have understood,” he stresses.

“I know.”

"You're not mad?"

He sighs, thinking of Alfred and the past tumultuous month and loathsome week. What may come of it all? Who can guess. But, suddenly, he is all that much eager to return to Alfred. "Well." Of course, he is still upset by the whole ordeal and still feels strange in his own skin. His brothers and some of the other nations will, no doubt, tease him from now until eternity. Oh, how he wishes to give her another piece of of his mind. But, now is not the time to reprimand with red rimming her eyes.

"I am truly sorry, Arthur."

"I know. We'll not speak of it now, though. Come, Kitty." He takes her hand, "It's cold in here. I'd rather make my own tea anyway. We'll stop for some biscuits."

She hesitates, regards him with a curious eye, as though asking if he's being patronizing. His eyes remain soft and he offers tender, flat smile. A small smile curls her lips. “Chocolate?”

"Yes, of course, chocolate." He grins. "None other."

"It's not a problem for me to stay with you a while?"

"None at all."

She then lets him pull her up, his hand resting firmly, but gently, against her back as they walk to his car. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Think nothing of it.” She's not going to get those chocolate biscuits when they get back to his home. No. He silently plans to send her straight to bed with a cup of broth.

 

~*~

 

“Alfred?” England casts repeated glances at the opposite end of the couch where America is curled up, arms and legs tucked close to his torso. Both wear the clothing they slept in the night before. Arthur put his back on, still without the matching pair of pajama bottoms.

He nods and his eyes shift a moment in his direction, but gives no further response.

“Alfred?” England repeats more firmly. “Talk to me.”

“Nufin'” he mumbles through teeth and lips, he is biting his lip.

“In intelligible phrases, please, darling.”

Alfred swallows audibly at that, and seems to curl in on himself even further.

“Alfred? What is it?”

He glances at the space between them.

Of all the times for Alfred to be quiet, it's when Arthur needs to know what's going in his head; it's never usually such a secret.

He looks almost... Arthur pauses. He looks scared.

“What's wrong?” He closes the distance between them and holds Alfred by his shoulders. He flinches but Arthur is not deterred, and hugs him tightly.

“What?” Alfred mutters, and squirms in the grip. “Why?”

He pulls back, to stare into wary, watery blue eyes. He cannot think of an appropriate answer right away.

When England had awakened as a male that morning, he was happy. Of course he was. But, now, he was not as relieved as he thought he would be upon seeing Alfred's reaction to seeing him as a male again. There were a lot of questions that scritched and scratched at his mind the night before he changed back. He had pushed them away that morning as he did the bedding. Alfred had slept undisturbed, and rather than wake him and share the news of his transformation, he ventured downstairs for his morning cup of tea and left him.

England realizes now that he should have awakened Alfred before he got out of bed.

They should have talked.

Who knows what the younger nation things now. A young man of fearful conspiracy theories and the ill will of half the world, and England leaves him to his own devices and rapid-fire thoughts pinballing through his own self-doubt.  
Arthur realizes that he is the biggest fool in history.

Alfred attempts to pull away from his embrace again. “I didn't...I didn't think you'd want...” he stutters.

“That I wouldn't want what, love? I don't understand.” England brushes the sleep-wild hair from America's forehead. “What are you saying?"

“You changed back.”

England smiles. “Yes, I did.” 

“Yeah, and now that you have. I didn't think you'd want me to...to.”

“Wouldn't want you to what?” His brow furrows.

“To do this.” Alfred gestures down with his chin at their arms.

“What? Hug you?”

“You didn't much before.”

“What? Oh!” The realization comes to England suddenly. “I thought we came to an understanding last night.”

“I just didn't...didn't want to assume. You know?” He moves slightly as though to hug him tighter, but stops himself and tenses.

“Oh Alfred.” England pulls Alfred closer, and then rests his back on the sofa arm, holding him as he had been held the night before, head tucked under chin. “Answer this then. What are your feelings now? After all we've been through during the past month. After all that. Now that I'm myself again. What do you think of things now?”

“You were you before.”

“I'm glad you acknowledge that. But, please, answer the question.”

“I feel the same.”

“As do I.”

“What does this mean now?”

“Well, that's the question we both have to think about, hm?”

“Heh, heh, yeah.”

They lay together in companionable silence for a while; Arthur combs his hands through Alfred's hair, and Alfred nuzzles his cheek against Arthur's shoulder.

“Hey Arthur,” Alfred sighs, after some time.

“Yes, love?”

“You still look good in that shirt.”

"You plonker!"

"You do." Alfred hugs him tighter. "And Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Your cheeks are all scruffy."

"Oh! You!" Arthur swats him on the shoulder. Alfred laughs. And, he thinks this is nice; it's comfortable. "Thank you, Alfred." He whispers into his hair.

"You're welcome, Arthur," Alfred whispers back. Both drift back to sleep, nestled in each others arms, the morning light casting shadows over them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10: "Let Her Go" - title, from Passenger. I kept it from a version of this chapter that was written from America's POV, but I could cover more from England's POV. I loved the song so much I just had to keep the chapter title as is.


End file.
